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THE VICAR’S DAUGHTER 






































































THE 


VICAR’S DAUGHTER 


An Autobiographical Story 


BT 

GEORGE MACDONALD 

Author of “ David Elginbrod,” “ Alec Forbes,” ” Annals ok a 

Neighborhood,’ etc. 


) / ) 





NEW YORK 

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, Limited 

119 AND I2I West 23RD St. 








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CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGC 

I. INTRODUCTORY. .1 

II. I TRY.9 

III. MY WEDDING ... . . . • l8 

IV. JUDY’S VISIT.27 

V. “good society*' .32 

VI. A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT.37 

VII. CONNIE. 43 

VIII. CONNIE’S BABY.47 

IX. THE FOUNDLING RE-FOUND.54 

X. WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOUR ...,.60 

XI. A STUPID CHAPTER.65 

XII. AN INTRODUCTION .••••. 70 

XIII. A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL . , • • • .75 

XIV. MY FIRST DINNER-PARTY. 79 

XV. A PICTURE. 90 

• • • • 


XVI* RUMOURS 


95 









VI 


Contents, 


CHAf. 

XVII. A DISCOVERY 


XVIII. MISS CLARE . . • • 

XIX. MISS CLARE’S HOME • • 

XX. HER STURY .... 

XXI. A REMARKABLE FACT • • 

XXII. LADY BERNARD . . • 

XXIII. MY SECOND DINNER-PARTY . 

XXIV. THE END OF THE EVENING . 

XXV. MY FIRST TERROR . • • 

XXVI. ITS SEQUEL . . « . 

XXVII. TROUBLES .... 

XXVIII. MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS 

XXIX. MR. MORLEY . . . • 

XXX. A STRANGE TEXT . , 

XXXI. ABOUT SERVANTS . • • 

XXXII. ABOUT PERCIVALE . , , 

XXXIII. MY SECOND TERROR 
XXXIV. THE CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN 
XXXV. THE SUNSHINE 

XXXVI. WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT 
XXXVII. RETROSPECTIVE 


OF I 


PAG! 

los 


. II3 

. II8 

• 124 

. 145 
. 152 

. 156 

• 173 

• 179 
. 197 

. 208 
. 217 
. 225 

• 237 

. 263 
. 269 

• 275 

• 281 

• 291 

• 296 

• 299 
. 303 


XXXVIII. MRS. CROMWELL COMES 







ConUnts. vii 

CHAT. rXCB 

XXXIX. MRS. CROMWELL GOES.323 

XL. ANCESTRAL WISDOM •••••• 337 

XLL CHILD NONSENSE.344 

XUl. DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE . .353 

XLIII. ROGER AND MARION.361 

XUV. A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. 

BLACKSTONS • • t • • • • 368 

XLT. THE DEA 








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THE VICAR’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER 1. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

I HiNK that is the way my father would begin. My name 
is Ethelwyn Percivale, and used to be Ethelwyn Walton. I 
ai ays put the Walton in between when I write to my father, 
fc I think it is quite enough to have to leave father and mother 
bt and for a husband, without leaving their name behind you 
alr 'o. I am fond of lumber rooms, and in some houses consider 
tb'^m far the most interesting spots; but I don’t choose that 
nu^ old name should lie about in the one at home. 

I am much afraid of writing nonsense, but my father tells me 
that to see things in print is a great help to recognizing whether 
they are nonsense or not. And he tells me too that his friend, 
the publisher, who—but I will speak of him presently—his 
friend the publisher is not like any other publisher he ever met 
w'ith before, for he is so fond of good work that he never 
grumbles at any alterations waiters choose to make—at least he 
never says anything, although it costs a great deal to shift the 
types again after they are once set up. The other part of my 
excuse for attempting to write, lies simply in telling how ii 
came about. 

Ten days ago, my father came up from Marshmallows to pay 



4 The Vicar's Daughter, 

I laughed, for the very notion of writing a book seemed 
prej losterous. 

“ I want you, under feigned names of course,” he went on, 
** as are all the names in your father’s two books, to give me 
the further history of the family, and in particular your own 
experiences in London. I am confident the history of your 
married life must contain a number of incidents which, without 
the least danger of indiscretion, might be communicated to 
the public to the great advantage of all who read them.” 

“ You forget,” I said, hardly believing him to be in earnest, 
“that I should be exposing my story to you and Mr. Blackstone 
at least. If I were to make the absurd attempt—I mean absurd 
as regards my ability—I should be always thinking of you two 
as my public, and whether it would be right for me to say this 
and say that; which, you may see at once, would render it 
Impossible for me to write at all.” 

“ I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty, Wynnie,” 
said my father. “You must write freely, all you feel inclined 
to write, and then let your husband see it. You may be con- 
ent to let all pass that he passes.” 

“ You don’t say you really mean it, papa ! The thing is 
perfectly impossible. I never wrote a book in my life, and—” 

“No more did I, my dear, before I b ;gan my first.” 

‘But you grew up to it by degrees, pupa.” 

I have no doubt that will make it the easier for you when 
/Od try. I am so far at least a Darwinian as to believe that.” 

“ But, really, Mr. S. ought to have more sense—I beg your 
pardon, Mr. S., but it is perfectly absurd to suppose me capable 
of finishing anything my father has begun. I assure you I 
don’t feel flattered by your proposal. I have got a man of 
more consequence for a father than that would imply.” 

All this time my tall husband sat silent at the foot of 
the table, as if he had nothing on earth to do with the affah, 
instead of coming to my assistance, when, as I thought, I really 
needed it, especially seeing my own father was of the combina- 
tiod against me. For what can be more miserable than to be 


Introductory, 5 

taken for wiser or better or cleverer than, you know perfectly 
well, you are ? I looked down the table, straight and sharp at 
him, thinking to rouse him by the most powerful of silent 
appeals \ and when he opened his mouth very solemnly, staring 
at me in return down all the length of the table, I thought I 
had succeeded. But I was not a little surprised when 1 heard 
him say,— 

“ I think, Wynnie, as your father and Mr. S. appear to wish 
it, you might at least try.” 

This almost overcame me, and I was very near—never mind 
what. I bit my lips and tried to smile, but felt as if all my 
friends had forsaken me, and were about to turn me out to beg 
my bread. How on earth could I write a book without making 
a fool of myself! ” 

“ You know, Mrs. Percivale,” said Mr. S., “ you needn’t be 
afraid about the composition, and the spelling, and all that. 
We can easily set those to rights at the office.” 

He couldn’t have done anything better to send the lump out 
of my throat, for this made me angry. 

“ I am not in the least anxious about the spelling,’* I ' 
answered ; ‘‘ and for the rest, pray what is to become of me, if 
what you print should happen to be praised by somebody who 
likes my husband or my father, and therefore wants to say 
a good word for me ? That’s what a good deal of reviewing 
comes to, I understand. Am I to receive in silence what 
doesn’t belong to me, or am I to send a letter to the papers to 
say that the whole thing was patched and polished at the printing 
office, and that I have no right to more than perhaps a fourth 
part of the commendation ? How would that do ? ” 

“ But you forget it is not to have your name to it,” he said , 

‘‘ and so it won’t matter a bit. There will be nothing dishonei’t 
about it” 

“You forget that although nobody knows my real name, 
everybody will know that I am the daughter of that Mr. 
Walton who would have thrown his pen in the fire if you had 
meddled with anything he wrote. They would be praising 


6 


The Vicar^s Daughter. 

if they praised at all. The name is nothing. Of all things, 
to have praise you don’t deserve, and not to be able to reject 
it, is the most miserable! It is as bad as painting one’s 
face.” 

“ Hardly a case in point,” said Mr. Blackstone. “For the 
artificial complexion would be your own work, and the other 
would not.” 

“ If you come to discuss that question,” said my father, “ we 
must all confess we have had in our day to pocket a good many 
more praises than we had a right to. I agree with you, how¬ 
ever, my child, that we must not connive at anything of the 
sort. So I will propose this clause in the bargain between you 
and Mr. S.—namely, that if he finds any fault with your work, 
he shall send it back to yourself to be set right, and if you 
cannot do so to his mind, you shall be off the bargain.” 

“ But papa—Percivale—both of you know well enough that 
nothing ever happened to me worth telling.” 

“I am sorry your life has been so very uninteresting, 
wife,” said my husband, grimly \ for his fun is always so like 
earnest! 

“ You know well enough what I mean, husband. It does 
not follow that what has been interesting enough to you and me 
will be interesting to people who know nothing at all about us 
to begin with.” 

“It depends on how it is told,” said Mr. S. 

“Then, I beg leave to say, that I never had an original 
thought in my life, and that if I were to attempt to tell my 
history the result would be as silly a narrative as ever one old 
woman told another by the workhouse fire.” 

“ And I only wish I could hear the one old woman tell her 
story to the other,” said my father. 

“ Ah ! but that’s because you see ever so much more in it 
than shows. You always see through the words and the things 
to something lying behind them,” I said. 

“ Well, if you told the story rightly, other people would see 
such things behind it too.’' 


Introductory, y 

** Not enough of people to make it worth while for Mr. S. to 
print it,” I said. 

“ He’s not going to print it except he thinks it worth his 
while, and you may safely leave that to him,” said my hus ■ 
band. 

“And so I’m to write a book as bigas the Annals, and after 
I’ve been slaving at it for half a century or so, I’m to be told 
it won’t do, and all my labour must go for nothing ? I must 
say the proposal is rather a cool one to make—to the mother of 
a family.” 

“Not at all;—that’s not it, I mean,” said Mr. S.—“If you 
will write a dozen pages or so, I shall be able to judge by those 
well enough—at least I will take all the responsibility on my¬ 
self after that” 

“ There’s a fair offer! ” said my husband. “ It seems to me, 
Wynnie, that all that is wanted of you is to tell your tale so 
that other people can recognize the human heart in it—the 
heart that is like their own, and be able to feel as if they were 
themselves going through the things you recount.” 

“ You describe the work of a genius, and coolly ask me to do 
it. Besides, I don’t want to be set thinking about my heart, 
and all that,” I said peevishly. 

“Now don’t be raising objections where none exist,” he 
returned. 

“ If you mean I am pretending to object, I have only to say 
that I feel all one great objection to the whole affair, and tha^ 
I won’t touch it.” 

They were all silent, and I felt as if I had behaved un¬ 
graciously. Then first I felt as if I might have to do it after all. 
But I couldn’t see my way in the least. 

“Now what is there,” I asked, “in all my life that is 
worth setting down—I mean as I should be able to set it 
down ? ” 

“ What do you ladies talk about now, in your morning calls ? ” 
suggested Mr. Blackstone, with a humorous glance from his 
deep black eyes. 


8 The Vicai^s Daughter. 

** Nothing worth writing about, as I am sure you will readily 
Oelieve, Mr. Blackstone,’' I answered. 

“ How comes it to be interesting then ? ” 

But it isn’t. They—we—only talk about the weather and 
our children and servants, and that sort of thing.” 

“ Well!^^ said Mr. S.—“and I wish I could get anything 
sensible about the weather and children and servants, and that 
sort of thing, for my magazine. I have a weakness in the 
direction of the sensible.” 

“ But there never is anything sensible said about any of them 
—not that I know of.” 

“ Now, Wynnie, I am sure you are wrong,” said my father, 
“ There is your friend, Mrs. Cromwell: I am certain she, some¬ 
times at least, must say what is worth hearing about such 
matters.” 

“Well, but she’s an exception. Besides, she hasn’t any 
children.” 

“ Then,” said my husband, “ there’s Lady Bernard —” 

“ Ah—but she was like no one else. Besides, she is almost 
a public character, and anything said about her, would betray 
my original.” 

“ It would be no matter. She is beyond caring for that 
now; and not one of her friends could object to anything you 
who loved her so much would say about her.” 

The mention of this lady seemed to put some strength into 
me. I felt as if I did know something worth telling, and I was 
silent in my turn. 

“Certainly,” Mr. S. resumed, “whatever is worth talking 
about is worth writing about—though not perhaps in the way 
it is talked about Besides, Mrs. Percivale, my clients want to 
know more about your sisters and little Theodora or Dorothea, 
or what was her name in the book ? ” 

The end of it was that I agreed to try to the extent of a 
dozen pages or sa 



/ Try, 


9 


CHAPTER II. 

I TRY. 

I HOPE no one will think I try to write like ?ny father, for that 
would be to go against what he always made a great point of 
—that nobody whatever should imitate any other person what¬ 
ever, but in modesty and humility allow the seed that God had 
sown in her to grow. He said all imitation tended to dwarf 
and distort the plant, if it even allowed the seed to germinate 
at all. So if I do write like him, it will be because I cannot 
help it. 

I will just look how The Seaboard Parish ends, and perhaps 
that will put into my head how I ought to begin. I see my 
father does mention that I had then been Mrs. Percivale for 
many years. Not so very many though—five or six, if I 
remember rightly, and that is three or four years ago. Yes, 
I have been married nine years. I may as well say a word as 
to how it came about, and if Percivale doesn’t like it, the 
remedy lies in his pen. I shall be far more thankful to have 
anything struck out on suspicion than remain on sufferance. 

After our return home from Kilkhaven, my father and mother 
had a good many talks about me and Percivale, and sometimes 
they took different sides. I will give a shadow of one of these 
conversations. I think ladies can write fully as natural talk 
as gentlemen can, though the bits between mayn’t be so good. 

Mother .—I am afraid, my dear husband, (this was my 
mother’s most solemn mode of addressing my father)—they 
are too like each other to make a suitable match. 

Father .—I am sorry to learn you consider me so very unlike 
yourself, Ethelwyn. I had hoped there was a very strong 
resemblance indeed, and that the match had not pioved alto¬ 
gether unsuitable. 

Mother ,—Just think, though, what‘would have become of 
me by this time, if you had been half as unbelieving a creature 


10 The Vicar's Daughter, 

as I was. Indeed I fear sometimes I am not much better 

now. 

Father .—I think I am then; and I know you’ve done me 
nothing but good with your unbelief. It was just because I 
was of the same sort precisely that I was able to understand 
and help you. My circumstances and education and superior 
years— 

Mother .—Now don’t plume yourself on that, Harry, for you 
know everybody says you look much the younger of the 
two. 

Father .—I had no idea that everybody was so rude. I 
repeat, that my more years, as well as my severer education, 
had, no doubt, helped me a little further on before I came to 
know you; but it was only in virtue of the doubt in me that I 
was able to understand and appreciate the doubt in you. 

Mother. — But then you had at least begun to leave it behind 
before I knew you, and so had grown able to help me. And 
Mr. Percivale does not seem, by all I can make out, a bit nearer 
believing in anything than poor Wynnie herself 

Father .—At least he doesn’t fancy he believes when he does 
not, as so many do, and consider themselves superior persons 
in consequence. I don’t know that it would have done you 
any great harm. Miss Ethelwyn, to have made my acquaintance 
when I was in the worst of my doubts concerning the truth of 
things. Allow me to tell you that I was nearer making ship¬ 
wreck of my faith at a certain period than I ever was before or 
have been since. 

Mother .—What period was that ? 

Father .—Just the little while when I had lost all hope ot 
ever marrying you—unbeliever as you counted yourself 

Mother.-^Y om don’t mean to say you would have ceased to 
believe in God if he hadn’t given you your own way? What 
is faith worth if it depends on being indulged ? 

Father. —No, my dear. I firmly believe that had I never 
married you, I should have come in the end to say Thy will be 
done, and to believe that it must be all right however hard to 


II 


TTry. 

bear. But, oh, what a terrible thing it would have been, and 
what a frightful valley of the shadow of death I should have 
had to go through first! 

I know my mother said nothing more just then, but let my 
father have it all his own way for a while. 

Father .—^You see this Percivale is an honest man. I don’t 
exactly know how he has been brought up, and it is quite 
possible he may have had such evil instruction in Christianity 
that he attributes to it doctrines which, if I supposed they 
actually belonged to it, would make me reject it at once as 
ungodlike and bad. I have found this the case sometimes. 
I remember once being astonished to hear a certain noble- 
minded lady utter some indignant words against what I con¬ 
sidered a very weighty doctrine of Christianity ; but listening 
I soon found that what she supposed the doctrine to contain 
was something I considered vastly unchristian. This may be 
the case with Percivale, though I never heard him say a word 
of the kind. I think his difficulty comes mainly from seeing 
so much suffering in the world that he cannot imagine the 
presence and rule of a good God; and therefore lies with reli¬ 
gion rather than with Christianity as yet. I am all but cer¬ 
tain, the only thing that will ever make him able to believe in a 
God at all is meditation on the Christian idea of God—I mean 
the idea of God in Christ reconciling the world to himself. 
He will then see that suffering is not either wrath or neglect, 
but sore-hearted love and tenderness. But we must give him 
time, wife; as God has borne with us, we must believe that 
he bears with others, and so learn to wait in hopeful patience 
until they too see as we see. 

And as to trusting our Wynnie with Percivale—he seems to 
be as good as she is. I should for my part have more appre¬ 
hension in giving her to one who would be called a thoroughly 
religious man; for not only would the unfitness be greater, but 
such a man would be more likely to confirm her in doubt, if the 
phrase be permissible. She wants what some would call 
homoeopathic treatment. And how should they be able to love 


12 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

one another if they are not fit to be married to each other ? 
The fitness seems inherent in the fact. 

Mother. —But many a two love each other who would have 
loved each other a good deal more if they hadn’t been 
married. 

Father, —Then it was most desirable they should find out that 
what they thought a grand affection was not worthy of the name. 
But I don’t think there is much fear of that between those two. 

Mother. —I don’t, however, see how that man is to do he’* 
any good, when you have tried to make her happy for so long, 
and all in vain. 

Father. —I don’t know that it has been all in vain. But it 
is quite possible she does not understand me. She fancies, I 
dare say, that I believe everything without any trouble, and 
therefore cannot enter into her difficulties. 

Mother. —But you have told her many and many a time 
that you do. 

Father. —Yes—and I hope I was right; but the same things 
look so different to different people that the same words won’t 
describe them to both; and it may seem to her that I am 
talking of something not at all like what she is feeling or 
thinking of. But when she sees the troubled face of Perci- 
vale, she knows that he is suffering; and sympathy being thus 
established between them, the least word of the one will do more 
to help the other than oceans of argument. Love is the one 
great instructor. And each will try to be good and to find out 
for the sake of the other. 

Mother. —I don’t like her going from home for the help that 
lay at her very door. 

Father. —You know, my dear, you like the dean’s preaching 
much better than mine. 

Mother. —Now that is unkind of you I 

Father. —And why ? (my father went on, taking no heed of 
my mother’s expostulation.) Because in the first place it is 
better; because in the second it comes in a newer form to you, 
for you have got used to all my modes j in the third place it hai 


13 


I Try. 

more force from the fact that it is not subject to the doubt 
of personal preference; and lastly, because he has a large com¬ 
prehensive way of asserting things, which pleases you better than 
my more dubitant mode of submitting them—all very sound and 
good reasons; but still, why be so vexed with Wynnie ? 

My mother was now however so vexed with my father 
for saying she preferred the dean’s preaching to his, although 
I doubt very much whether it wasn’t true, that she actually 
walked out of the octagon room where they were, and left him to 
meditate on his unkindness. Vexed with herself the next 
moment she returned as if nothing had happened. —I am 
only telling what my mother told me, for to her grown 
daughters she is blessedly trusting. 

Mother. —Then if you will have them married, husband, 
will you say how on earth you expect them to live ? He just 
makes both ends meet now : I suppose he doesn’t make things 
out worse than they are, and that is his own account of the 
state of his affairs. 

Father. —Ah, yes ! that is —a secondary consideration, my 
dear. But I have hardly begun to think about it yet There 
will be a difficulty there, I can easily imagine; for he is far too 
independent to let us do anything for him. 

Mother. —And you can’t do much, if they would. Really 
they oughtn’t to marry yet. 

Father. —Really we must leave it to themselves. I don’t think 
you and I need trouble our heads about it. When Percivale 
considers himself prepared to marry, and Wynnie thinks he is 
right, you may be sure they see their way to a livelihood without 
running in hopeless debt to their tradespeople. 

Mother. —Oh yes ! I daresay !—in some poky little lodging 
or other! 

Father. —For my part, Ethelwyn, I think it better to build 
castles in the air than huts in the smoke. But seriously, a 
little poverty, and a little struggling would be a most healthy 
and healing thing for Wynnie. It hasn’t done Percivale much 
good yet, I confess; for he is far too indifferent to his own 


14 


The Vicai^s Daughter, 

comforts to mind it; but it will be quite another thing when he 
has a young wife and perhaps children depending upon him. 
Then his poverty may begin to hurt him and so do him good. 

It may seem odd that my father and mother should now be 
taking such opposite sides to those they took when the question 
of our engagement was first started — as represented by my father 
in The Seaboard Parish. But it will seem inconsistent to none 
of the family; for it was no unusual thing for them to take 
opposite sides to those they had previously advocated —each 
happening at the time, possibly enlightened by the foregone 
arguments of the other, to be impressed with the correlate truth 
—as my father calls the other side of a thing. Besides, engage¬ 
ment and marriage are two different things, and although my 
mother was the first to recognize the good of our being engaged, 
when it came to marriage she got frightened, I think. Anyhow 
I have her authority for saying that something like this passed 
between her and my father on the subject. 

Discussion between them differed in this from what I have 
generally heard between married people, that it was always 
founded on a tacit understanding of certain unmentioned prin¬ 
ciples ; and no doubt sometimes, if a stranger had been present, 
he would have been bewildered as to the very meaning of what 
they were saying. But we girls generally understood; and I 
fancy we learned more from their differences than from their 
agreements; for of course it was the differences that brought out 
their minds most, and chiefly led us to think that we might 
understand. In our house there were very few of those mysteries 
which in some houses seem so to abound ; and I think the 
openness with which every question, for whose concealment 
there was no special reason, was discussed, did more than 
even any direct instruction we received to develope what 
thinking faculty might be in us. Nor was there much reason 
to dread that my sm ill brothers might repeat anything, I 
remember hearing Harry say to Charley once—they being then 
eight and nine years old—“ That is mamma’s opinion, Charley 
—not yours, and you know we must not repeat what we hear.” 


I Try. IS 

They soon came to be of one mind about Mr. Percivale and 
me—for indeed the only real ground for doubt that had ever 
existed was—whether I was good enough for him ; and for my 
part I knew then and know now that I was and am dreadfully 
inferior to him. And notwithstanding the tremendous work 
women are now making about their rights—I so wish they had 
them, if it were only that certain who make me feel ashamed of 
myself because I too am a woman, might perhaps then dropout of 
the public regard—notwithstanding this, I venture the sweeping 
assertion that every woman is not as good as every man, and 
that it is not necessary to the dignity of a wife that she should 
assert even equality with her husband. Let him assert her 
equality or superiority if he will; but ^/ere it a fact, it would 
be a poor one for her to assert, seeing her glory is in her husband. 
To seek the chief place is especially unfitting the marriage feast. 
Whether I be a Christian or not, and I have good reason to 
doubt it every day of my life, at least I see that in the New 
Jerusalem one essential of citizenship consists in knowing 
how to set the good in others over against the evil in our¬ 
selves. 

There now—my father might have said that! and no doubt 
has said so twenty times in my hearing. It is, however, only 
since I was married that I have come to see it for myself \ and 
now that I do see it, I have a right to say it. 

So we were married at last. My mother believes it was my 
father’s good advice to Percivale concerning the sort of pictures 
he painted, that brought it about. For certainly soon after we 
were engaged, he began to have what his artist friends called a 
run of luck: he sold one picture after another in a very extra¬ 
ordinary and hopeful manner. But Percivale says it was his love 
for me—indeed he does—which enabled him to see not only 
much deeper into things, but also to see much better the bloom 
that hangs about everything, and so to paint much better 
pictures than before. He felt, he said, that he had a hold now 
where before he had only a sight. However this may be, he 
had got on so well for a while that he wrote at last that if I 


16 The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

was willing to share his poverty, it would not, he thought, 
be absolute starvation, and I was, of course, perfectly con¬ 
tent I can’t put in words — indeed I dare not, for fear of 
writing what would be if not unladylike at least unchari¬ 
table—my contempt for those women who, loving a man, 
hesitate to run every risk with him. Of course, if they 
Cannot trust him, it is a different thing. I am not going to say 
anything about that, for I should be out of my depth—not 
in the least understanding how a woman can love a man tc 
whom she cannot look up. I believe there are who can ; 
I see some men married whom I don’t believe any woman ever 
did or ever could respect; all I say is, I don’t understand it. 

{ My father and mother made no objection, and were evidently 
at last quite agreed that it would be the best thing for both 
of us—and so, I say, we were married. 

I ought just to mention that, before the day arrived, my 
mother went up to London at Percivale’s request, to help him 
in getting together the few things absolutely needful for the 
barest commencement of housekeeping. For the rest, it had 
been arranged that we should furnish by degrees, buying as we 
saw what we liked, and could afford it. The greater part of 
modern fashions in furniture, having both been accustomed to 
the stateliness of a more artistic period, we detested for their 
ugliness, and chiefly therefore we desired to look about us at 
our leisure. 

- My mother came back more satisfied with the little house he 
had taken than I had expected. It was not so easy to get one 
to suit us, for of course he required a large room to paint in, 
with a good north light. He had, however, succeeded better 
than he had hoped. 

You will find things very different from what you have been 
used to. Wyrinie,” said my mother. 

^ Of course, mamma ; I know that,” I answered. “ I hope 
I am prepared to meet it. If I don’t like it, I shall have no 
one to ^ blame but myself; and I don’t see what right people 
have expect what they have been used to.” 


17 


I Try. 

“There is just this advantage,” said my father, “in having 
been used to nice things, that it ought to be easier to keep from 
sinking into the sordid, however straitened the new circum¬ 
stances may be, compared with the old.” 

On the evening before the wedding, my father took me into 
the octagon room, and there knelt down with me and my mother, 
and prayed for me in such a wonderful way that I was perfectly 
astonished and overcome. I had never known him do any¬ 
thing of the kind before. He was not favourable to extempore 
prayer in public, or even in the family, and indeed had often 
seemed willing to omit prayers for what I could not always 
count sufficient reason : he had a horror at their getting to be a 
matter of course and a form; for then, he said, they ceased 
to be worship at all, and were a mere pagan rite, better far 
left alone. I remember also he said, that those, however good 
they might be, who urged attention to the forms of religion, 
such as going to church and saying prayers, were, however 
innocently, just the prophets of Pharisaism; that what men had 
to be stirred up to was to lay hold upon God, and then they 
would not fail to find out what religious forms they ought to 
cherish. “ The spirit first and then the flesh,” he would say. 
To put the latter before the former was a falsehood, and 
therefore a frightful danger, being at the root of all declensions 
in the church, and making ever recurring earthquakes and 
persecutions and repentances and reformations needful. I find 
what my father used to say coming back so often now that I 
hear so little of it—especially as he talks much less, accusing 
himself of having always talked too much—and I understand 
it so much better now, that I shall be always in danger of 
interrupting my narrative to say something that he said. But 
when I commence the next chapter, I shall get on faster, I hope. 
My story is like a vessel I saw once being launched ; it would 
stick on the stocks, instead of sliding away into the expectant 
waters. 


m 


The Vicars Daughter. 


iS 


CHAPTER III. 

MY WEDDING. 

I CONFESS the first thing I did when I knew myself the next 
morning was to have a good cry. To leave the place where I 
had been born was like forsaking the laws and order of the 
nature I knew—for some other—nature it might be, but not 
known to me as such. How, for instance, could one who has 
been used to our bright white sun, and our pale modest moon, 
with our soft twilights and far, mysterious skies of night, be 
willing to fall in with the order of things in a planet such as I 
have read of somewhere, with three or four suns, one red and 
another green and another yellow ? Only perhaps IVe taken 
it all up wrong—and I do like looking at a landscape for a 
minute or so through a coloured glass ; and if it be so, of course 
it all blends, and all we want is harmony. What I mean is, 
that I found it a great wrench to leave the dear old place, and 
of course loved it more than I had ever loved it. But I would 
get all my crying about that over beforehand. It would be 
bad enough afterwards to have to part w^ch my father and 
mother and Connie and the rest of them. Only it wasn’t like 
leaving them. You can’t leave hearts as you do rooms. You 
can’t leave thoughts as you do books. Those you love only 
come nearer to you when you go aw^ay from them. The same 
rules don’t hold with thinks and things^ as my eldest boy 
distinguished them the other day. 

But somehow I couldn’t get up and dress. I seemed to 
have got very fond of my own bed, and the queer old crows, 
as I had called them from babyhood, on the chintz curtains, 
and the Chinese paper on the walls with the strangest birds 
and creeping things on it. It was a lovely spring morning, and 
the sun was shining gloriously. I knew that the rain of the 
last night must be glittering on the grass and the young leaves, 
and I heard the birds singing as if they knew far more than 


19 


My Wedding. 

mere human beings, and believed a great deal more than they 
knew. Nobody will persuade me that the birds don’t mean it; 
that they sing from anything else than gladness of heart. And 
if they don’t think about cats and gun=^, why should they? 
Even when they fall on the ground, it is not without our 
Father. How horridly dull and stupid it seems to say that 
“ without your Father ” means without his knowing it. The 
Father’s mere knowledge of a thing- if that could be, which 
my father says can’t—is not the Father. The father’s tender¬ 
ness and care and love of it all the time—that is the not falling 
without him. When the cat kills the bird—as I have seen 
happen so often in our poor little London garden—God yet 
saves his bird from his cat. There is nothing so bad as it 
looks to our half-sight, our blinding perceptions. My father 
used to say we are all walking in a spiritual twilight, and are 
all more or less affected with twilight blindness, as some people 
are physically. Percivale, for one, who is as brave as any wife 
could wish, is far more timid than I am in crossing a London 
street in the twilight; he can’t see what is coming, and fancies 
he sees what is not coming. But then he has faith in me, and 
never starts when I am leading him. 

Well, the birds were singing, and Dora and the boys were 
making a great chatter, like a whole colony of sparrows, under 
my window. Still I felt as if I had twenty questions to settle 
before I could get up comfortably, and so lay on and on till 
the breakfast bell rang; and I was not more than half dressed 
when my mother came to see why I was late, for I had not 
been late for ever so long before. 

She comforted me as nobody but a mother can comfort 
Oh ! I do hope I shall be to my children what my mother has 
been to me. It would be such a blessed thing to be a well 
of water whence they may be sure of drawing comfort. And 
all she said to me has come true. 

Of course, my father gave me away, and Mr. Weir married 
us. 

It had been before agreed that we should have no wedding 
C 2 


20 


The Vicar s Daughter, 

journey. We all liked the old-fashioned plan of the bride 
going straight from her father’s house to her husband’s. The 
other way seemed a poor invention, just for the sake of some¬ 
thing different. So after the wedding, we spent the time as 
we should have done any other day, wandering about in groups, 
or sitting and reading, only that we were all more smartly 
dressed—until it was time for an early dinner, after which we 
drove to the station, accompanied only by my father and 
nother. 

After they left us, or rather we left them, my husband did 
not speak to me for nearly an hour. I knew why, and was very 
grateful. He would not show his new face in the midst of my 
old loves and their sorrows, but would give me time to re¬ 
arrange the grouping so as myself to bring him in when all 
was ready for him. I know that was what he was thinking, or 
feeling rather; and I understood him perfectly. At last, when 
I had got things a little tidier inside me, and had persuaded 
my eyes to stop, I held out my hand to him, and then—I knew 
that I was his wife. 

This is all I have to tell, though I have plenty more to 
keep, till we got to London. There, instead of my father’s 
nice carriage, we got into a jolting, lumbering, horrid cab, with 
my five boxes and Percivale’s little portmanteau on the top of 
it, and drove away to Camden Town. It was to a part of it 
near the Regent’s Park, and so our letters were always, accord¬ 
ing to the divisions of the Post Office, addressed to Regent’s 
Park, but for all practical intents we were in Camden Town. 
It was indeed a change from a fine old house in the country, 
but the street wasn’t much uglier than Belgrave Square, or any 
other of those heaps of uglinesses, called squares, in the West 
End; and after what I had been told to expect, I was surprised 
at the prettiness of the little house when I stepped out of the 
cab and looked about me. It was stuck on like a swallow’s 
nest to the end of a great row of commonplace houses, nearly 
a quarter of a mile in length, but itself was not the work of 
one of those wretched builders who care no more for beauty 


21 


My Wedding, 

In what they build than a scavenger in the heap of mud he 
scrapes from the street. It had been built by a painter for 
himself—in the Tudor style; and though Percivale says the 
idea is not very well carried out, I like it much. 

I found it a little dreary when I entered though—from its 
emptiness. The only sitting-room at all prepared had just a 
table and two or three old-fashioned chairs in it—not even a 
carpet on the floor. The bedroom and dressing-room were 
also as scantily furnished as they well could be. 

“ Don’t be dismayed, my darling,” said my husband. ** Look 
here ”—showing me a bunch of notes—“ we shall go out to¬ 
morrow and buy all we want—as far as this will go, and then 
wait for the rest. It will be such a pleasure to buy the things 
with you, and see them come home, and have you appoint 
their places. You and Sarah will make the carpets, won’t 
you?—and I will put them down, and we shall be like birds 
building their nest.” 

“ We have only to line it; the nest is built already.” 

‘‘Well, neither do the birds build the tree.—I wonder if 
they ever sit in their old summer nests in the winter nights.” 

“ I am afraid not,” I answered ; “ but I’m ashamed to say I 
can’t tell.” 

“ It is the only pretty house I know in all London,” he went 
on, “ with a studio at the back of it. I have had my eye on 
it for a long time, but there seemed no sign of a migratory 
disposition in the bird who had occupied it for three years 
past. All at once he spread his wings and flew. I count 
myself very fortunate.” 

“ So do I. But now you must let me see your study,” I 
said. “I hope I may sit in it when you’ve got nobody 
there.” 

“ As much as ever you like, my love,” he answered. “ Only 
I don’t want to make all my women like you, as I’ve been 
doing for the last two years. You must get me out of that 
somehow.” 

“ Easily. I shall be so cross and disagreeable that you will 


22 The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

get tired of me, and find no more difficulty in keeping me out 
of your pictures.” 

But he got me out of his pictures without that; for when 
he had me always before him he didn’t want to be always 
producing me. 

He led me into the little hall—made lovely by a cast of an 
unfinished Madonna of Michael Angelo’s let into the wall— 
and then to the back of it, where he opened a small cloth- 
covered door, when there yawned before me, below me, and \ 

above me, a great wide lofty room. Down into it led an almost 
perpendicular stair. 

** So you keep a little private precipice here,” I said. 

** No, my dear,” he returned ; ‘‘you mistake. It if a Jacob’s 
ladder—or will be in one moment more.” 

He gave me his hand and led me down. 

“ This is quite abanqueting-hall, Percivale ! ” I cried, looking 
round me. 

“ It shall be, the first time I get a thousand pounds for a 
picture,” he returned. 

“ How grand you talk ! ” I said, looking up at him with 
some wonder; for big words rarely came out of his mouth. 

“ Well,” he answered merrily, “ I had two hundred and 
seventy-five for the last.” 

“ That’s a long way off a thousand,” I returned, with a silly 
sigh. 

“ Quite right; and, therefore, this study is a long way off a 
banqueting-hall.” 

There was literally nothing inside the seventeen feet cube 
except one chair, one easel, a horrible thing like a huge doll, 
with no end of joints, called a lay figure, but Percivale called 
it his bishop ; a number of pictures leaning their faces against 
the walls in attitudes of grief that their beauty was despised 
and no man would buy them; a few casts of legs and arms 
and faces, half a dozen murderous-looking weapons, and a 
couple of yards square of the most exquisite tapestry I e'^ei 
saw. 


My Wedding, 23 

“ Do you like being read to when you are at work ? ” I asked 

him. 

“Sometimes—at certain kinds of work, but not by any 
means always,” he answered.—“ Will you shut your eyes for 
one minute,” he went on, “ and, whatever I do, not open them 
till I tell you ? ” 

“You mustn't hurt me, then, or I may open them without 
being able to help it, you know,” I said, closing my eyes tight. 

“ Hurt you ! ” he repeated, with a tone I would not put on 
the paper if I could ; and the same moment I found myself in 
his arms, carried like a baby, for Percivale is one of the strongest 
of men. 

It was only for a few yards, however. He laid me down 
somewhere, and told me to open my eyes. 

I could scarcely believe them when I did. I was lying on 
a couch in a room—small, indeed, but beyond exception the 
loveliest I had ever seen. At first I was only aware of an 
exquisite harmony of colour, and could not have told of what 
it was composed. The place was lighted by a soft lamp that 
hung in the middle, and when my eyes went up to see where 
it was fastened, I found the ceiling marvellous in deep blue, 
with a suspicion of green, just like some of the shades of a 
peacock’s feathers, with a multitude of gold and red stars upon 
it. What the walls were I could not for some time tell, they 
were so covered with pictures and sketches. Against one was 
a lovely little set of bookshelves filled with books; and on a 
little carved table stood a vase of white hothouse flowers, with 
one red camellia. One picture had a curtain of green silk 
before it, and by its side hung the wounded knight whom his 
friends were carrying home to die. 

“ Oh, my Percivale ! ” I cried, and could say no more. 

“ Do you like it ? ” he asked quietly, but with shining eyes. 

“ Like it ? ” I repeated. “ Shall I like Paradise when I get 
there ? But what a lot of money it must have cost you ! ” 

“ Not much,” he answered; “ not more than thirty pounds 
or so. Every spot of paint there is from my own brush.” 


24 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

“ Oh Percivale! ** 

I must make a conversation of it to tell it at all; but what 
I really did say I know no more than the man in the moon. 

“ The carpet was the only expensive thing. That must be 
as thick as I could get it, for the floor is of stone, and must 
not come near your pretty feet. Guess what the place was 
before.” 

“ I should say — the flower of a prickly pear cactus, full of 
sunlight from behind, which a fairy took the fancy to swell into 
a room.” 

“ It was a shed, in which the sculptor who occupied the 
place before me used to keep his wet clay and blocks of 
marble.” 

“ Seeing is hardly believing,” I said. “ Is it to be my room ? 
I know you mean it for my own room, where I can ask you to 
come when I please, and where I can hide when any one 
comes you don’t want me to see.” 

“That is just what I meant it for, my Ethelwyn - and to let 
you know what I ivould do for you if I could.” 

“ I hate the place, Percivale,” I said. “ What right has it 
to come poking in between you and me, telling me what I 
know and have known for—well, I won’t say how long—far 
better than even you can tell me ? ” 

He looked a little troubled. 

“ Ah, my dear,” I said, “ let my foolish words breathe and 
die.” 

I wonder sometimes to think how seldom I am in that room 
now. But there it is, and somehow I seem to know it all the 
time I am busy elsewhere. 

He made me shut my eyes again, and carried me into the 
study. 

“Now,” he said, “ find your way to your own room.” 

I looked about me, but could see no sign of a door. He 
took up a tall stretcher with a canvas on it, and revealed the 
door, at the same time showing a likeness of myself—at the 
top of the Jacob’s ladder, as he called it, with one foot on the 


25 


My Wedding, 

first step, and the other half-way to the second. The light 
came from the window on my left, which he had turned into 
a western window, in order to get certain effects from a sup¬ 
posed sunset. I was represented in a white dress, tinged with 
the rose of the west; and he had maraged, attributing the 
phenomenon to the inequalities of the gliss in the window, to 
suggest one rosy wing behind me, with just the shonlder-root 
of another visible. 

“ There! ” he said. “ It is not finished yet, but that is how 
I saw you one evening as I was sitting here all alone in the 
twilight.” 

“ But you didn’t really see me like that! ” I said. 

“ I hardly know,” he answered. “ I had been forgetting every¬ 
thing else in dreaming about you, and—how it was I cannot 
tell, but either in the body or out of the body there I saw you, 
standing just so at the top of the stair—smiling to me as much 
as to say,—‘ Have patience. My foot is on the first step. 
I’m coming.* I turned at once to my easel, and before the 
twilight was gone had sketched the vision. To-morrow you 
must sit to me for an hour or so—for I will do nothing else 
till I have finished it and sent it off to your father and mother.” 

I may just add that I hear it is considered a very fine paint¬ 
ing. It hangs in the great dining-room at home. I wish I 
were as good as he has made it look. 

The next morning, after I had given him the sitting he 
wanted, we set out on our furniture-hunt; when, having keen 
enough eyes, I caught sight of this and of that and of twenty 
different things in the brokers’ shops. We did not agree about 
the merits of everything by which one or the other was at¬ 
tracted, but an objection by the one always turned the other— 
a little at least; and we bought nothing we were not agreed 
about. Yet that evening the hall was piled with things sent 
home to line our nest. Percivale, as I have said, had saved 
up some money for the purpose, and I had a hundred pounds 
my father had given me before we started, which, never having 
had more than ten of my own at a time, I was eager enough 


26 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

to spend. So we found plenty to do for the fortnight during 
which time my mother had promised to say nothing to her 
friends in London of our arrival. Percivale also keeping out 
of the way of his friends, everybody thought we were on the 
continent—or somewhere else, and left us to ourselves. And 
as he had sent in his pictures to the Academy, he was able to 
take a rest, which rest consisted in working hard at all sorts 
of upholstery, not to mention painters’ and carpenters’ work; 
so that we soon got the little house made into a very warm 
and very pretty nest. I may mention that Percivale was par¬ 
ticularly pleased with a cabinet I bought for him on the sly— 
to stand in his study, and hold his paints and brushes and 
sketches, for there were all sorts of drawers in it, and some 
that it took us a good deal of trouble to find out, though he 
was clever enough to suspect them from the first, when I hadn’t 
a thought of such a thing; and I have often fancied since that 
that cabinet was just like himself, for I have been going on 
finding out things in him that I had no idea were there when 
I married him. I had no idea that he was a poet, for instance. 
I wonder to this day why he never showed me any of his 
verses before we were married. He writes better poetry than 
my father—at least my father says so. Indeed I soon came to 
feel very ignorant and stupid beside him ; he could tell me so 
many things, and especially in art—for he had thought about 
all kinds of it—making me understand that there is no end to 
it, any more than to the nature which sets it going, and that 
the more we see into nature, and try to represent it, the more 
ignorant and helpless we find ourselvesuntil at length I 
began to wonder whether God might not have made the world 
so rich and full just to teach his children humility. For a 
while I felt quite stunned. He very much wanted me to 
draw; but I thought it was no use trying, and indeed had no 
heart for it. I spoke to my father about it. He said it was 
indeed of no use if my object was to be able to think much of 
myself, for no one could ever succeed in that in the long run; 
but if my object was to reap the delight of the truth, it was 


Judy's Visit, 27 

worth while to sj)end hours and hours on trying to draw a single 
tree-leaf, or paint the wing of a moth. 


CHAPTER IV. 

JUDY^S VISIT. 

The very first morning after the expiry of the fortnight, when 
I was in the kitchen with Sarah, giving her instructions about 
a certain dish as if I had made it twenty times, whereas I had 
only just learned how from a shilling cookery-book, there came 
a double knock at the door. I guessed who it must be. 

“ Run, Sarah,'* I said, and show Mrs. Morley into the 
drawing-room.** 

When I entered, there she was—Mrs. Morley, alias. Cousin 
Judy. 

“ Well, little cozzie ! ** she cried, as she kissed me three or 
four times, I’m glad to see you gone the way of womankind 
—wooed and married and a’—Fate, child ! inscrutable fate ! ” 
and she kissed me again. 

She always calls me little coz, though I am a head taller than 
herself. She is as good as ever, quite as brusque, and at the 
first word apparently more overbearing. But she is as ready 
to listen to reason as ever was woman of my acquaintance, and 
I think the form of her speech is but a somewhat distorted 
reflex of her perfect honesty. After a little trifling talk, which 
is sure to come first when people are more than ordinarily glad 
to meet, I asked after her children. I forget how many there 
were of them, but they were then pretty far into the plural 
number. 

“ Growing like ill weeds,’* she said—‘‘as anxious as ever their 
grandfathers and mothers were to get their heads up and do 
mischief. For my part I wish I was Jove—to start them full- 


28 


The Vicar's Daughter> 

grown at once. Or why shouldn’t they be made like Eve out 
of their father’s ribs ? It would be a great comfort to their 
mother.” 

My father had always been much pleased with the results of 
Jud/s training, as contrasted with those of his sister’s. The 
little ones of my Aunt Martha’s family were always wanting some¬ 
thing, and always looking careworn like their mother he said, 
while she was always reading them lectures on their duty, and 
never making them mind what she said. She would represent 
the self-same thing to them over and over, until not merely all 
force, but all sense as well seemed to have forsaken it. Her 
notion of duty was to tell them yet again the duty which they 
had been told at least a thousand times already, without the 
slightest result. They were dull children, wearisome and unin¬ 
teresting. On the other hand the little Morleys were full of 
life and eagerness. The fault in them was that they wouldn’t 
take petting, and what’s the good of a child that won’t be 
petted ? They lacked that something which makes a woman 
feel motherly. 

‘‘ When did you arrive, cozzie ? ” she asked. 

** A fortnight ago yesterday.” 

“ Ah, you sly thing I What have you been doing with your¬ 
self all the time ? ” 

** Furnishing.” 

“ What! you came into an empty house ? ” 

“Not quite that, but nearly.” 

“ It is very odd I should never have seen your husband. We 
haw: crossed each other twenty times.” 

“ Not so very odd, seeing he has been my husband only a 
fortnight.” 

“ What is he like ? ” 

“ Like nothing but himself” 

“ Is he tall?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is he stout?” 

“Na” 


Judy's Visit, 


29 


“ An Adonis?” 

« No.” 

“ A Hercules?” 

“ No.” 

“ Very clever, I believe.” 

” Not at all.” 

For my father had taught me to look down on that word. 

” Why did you marry him then ? ” 

“ I didn’t. He married me.” 

“ What did you marry him for then ? ” 

“ For love.” 

“ What did you love him for ? ” 

“ Because he was a philosopher.” 

“That’s the oddest reason I ever heard for marrying a 
man.” 

“ I said for loving him, Judy.” 

Her bright eyes were twinkling with fun. 

“ Come, cozzie,” she said, “ give me a proper reason for 
falling in love with this husband of yours.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you, then,” I said; “only you mustn’t tell 
any other body: he’s got such a big shaggy head, just like a 
lion’s.” 

“ And such a huge big foot—just like a bear’s ?” 

“ Yes, and such great huge hands ! Why the two of them 
go quite round my waist! And such big eyes, that they look 
right through me; and such a big heart, that if he saw 
me doing anything wrong, he would kill me, and bury me 
in it.” 

“ Well, I must say, it is the most extraordinary description 
of a husband I ever heard. It sounds to me very like an 
ogre.” 

“ Yes, I admit, the description is rather ogrish. But then 
he’s poor, and that makes up for a good deal.” 

I was in the humour for talking nonsense, and of course 
expected of all people that Judy would understand my fun. 

“ How does that make up for anything ? ” 


30 


The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

“ Because if he is a poor man, he isn’t a rich man, and 
therefore not so likely to be stupid.” 

“ How do you make that out ? ” 

“Because, first of all, the rich man doesn’t* know what to do 
with his money, whereas my ogre knows what to do without it. 
Then the rich man wonders in the morning which waistcoat 
he shall put on, while my ogre has but one, besides his Sunday 
one. Then supposing the rich man has slept well, and has done 
a fair stroke or two of business, he wants nothing but a well- 
dressed wife, a well-dressed dinner, a few glasses of his 
favourite wine, and the evening paper, well diluted with a sleep 
in his easy-chair, to be perfectly satisfied that this world is the 
best of all possible worlds. Now my ogre, on the other 
hand—” 

I was going on to point out how frightfully different from all 
this my ogre was—how he would devour a half-cooked chop, 
and drink a pint of ale from the public-house, &c., &c., when 
she interrupted me, saying with an odd expression of voice,— 

“ You are satirical, cozzie. He’s not the worst sort of man 
you’ve just described. A woman might be very happy with 
him. If it weren’t such early days, I should doubt if you were 
as comfortable as you would have people think •; for how else 
should you be so ill-natured ? ” 

It flashed upon me that without the least intention I had 
been giving a very fair portrait of Mr. Morley. I felt my face 
grow as red as fire. 

“ I had no intention of being satirical, Judy,” I replied. “ I 
was only describing a man the very opposite of my husband.” 

“You don’t know mine yet,” she said. “You may 
think—” 

She actually broke down and cried. I had never in my life 
seen her cry, and I was miserable at what I had done. Here 
was a nice beginning of social relations in my married life ! 

I knelt down, put my arms round her, and looked up in her 
face. 

“Dear Judy,” I said, “you mistake me quite. I never 


31 


Judy's Visit. 

thought of Mr. Morley when I said that. How should I have 
dared to say such things if I had ? He is a most kind good 
man, and papa and every one is glad when he comes to see us. 
I dare say he does like to sleep well —I know Percivale does 
and I don’t doubt he likes to get on with what he’s at—Per¬ 
civale does, for he’s ever so much better company when he has 
got on with his picture; and I know he likes to see me well 
dressed—at least I haven’t tried him with anything else yet, for 
I have plenty of clothes for a while; and then for the dinner, 
which I believe was one of the points in the description I gave 
— I wish Percivale cared a little more for his, for then it would 
be easier to do something for him. As to the newspaper, there 
I fear I must give him up, for I have never yet seen him with 
one in his hand. He’s so stupid about some things ! ” 

“ Oh ! you’ve found that out, have you ? Men are stupid; 
there’s no doubt of that. But you don’t know my Walter yet.” 

I looked up, and, behold, Percivale was in the room ! His 
face wore such a curious expression that I could hardly help 
laughing. And no wonder! for here was I on my knees, 
clasping my first visitor, and to all appearance pouring out the 
woes of my wedded life in her lap—woes so deep that they 
drew tears from her as she listened. All this flashed upon me 
as I started to my feet, but I could give no explanation; I 
could only make haste to introduce my husband to my cousin 
Judy. 

He behaved of course as if he had heard nothing. But I 
fancy Judy caught a glimpse of the awkward position, for she 
plunged into the affair at once. 

Here is my cousin, Mr. Percivale, has been abusing my 
husband to my face, calling him rich and stupid, and I don’t 
know what all I confess he is so stupid as to be very fond 
of me, but that’s all I know against him.” 

And her handkerchief went once more to her eyes. 

Dear Judy I ” I expostulated, “ you know I didn’t say one 
word about him.” 

‘‘ Of course I do, you silly coz I ” she cried, and burst out 


32 


The Vicar’s Daughter. 

laughing. “ But I won't forgive you except you make amends 
by dining with us to-morrow.” 

Thus for the time she carried it off; but I believe, and have 
since had good reason for believing, that she had really mistaken 
me at first, and been much annoyed. 

She and Percivale got on very well. He showed her the 
portrait he was still working at—even accepted one or two 
trifling hints as to the likeness, and they parted the best friends 
in the world. 

Glad as I had been to see her, how I longed to see the last 
of her ! The m.oment she was gone, I threw myself into his 
arms, and told him how it came about. He laughed heartily. 

“I tvas a little puzzled,” he said, “ to hear you inform 
a lady I had never seen that I was so very stupid.” 

“ But I wasn’t telling a story either, for you know you are 
ve-e-e-ry stupid, Percivale. You don't know a leg from a 
shoulder of mutton, and you can’t carve a bit. How ever 
you can draw as you do, is a marvel to me, when you know 
nothing about the shapes of things. It was very wrong to say 
it, even for the sake of covering poor Mrs. Morley’s husband; 
but it was quite true, you know.” 

“ Perfectly true, my love,” he said, with something else where 
I’ve only put commas; “ and I mean to remain so, in order 
that you may always have something to fall back upon when 
you get yourself into a scrape by forgetting that other people 
have husbands as well as you.” 


CHAPTER V. 

“good society." 

We had agreed, rather against the inclination of both of us, 
to dine the next evening with the Morleys. We should have 
preferred our own society, but we could not refuse. 


** Good SocietyP 33 

“ They will be talking to me about my pictures,” said my 
husband, “ and that is just what I hate. People that know 
nothing of art, that can’t distinguish purple from black, will yet 
parade their ignorance, and expect me to be pleased.” 

** Mr. Morley is a well-bred man, Percivale,” I said. 

“ That’s the worst of it— they do it for good manners; I 
know the kind of people perfectly. I hate to have my pictures 
praised. It is as bad as talking to one’s face about the nose 
upon it.” 

I wonder if all ladies keep their husbands waiting. I did 
that night, I know, and, I am afraid, a good many times after 
—not, however, since Percivale told me very seriously that 
being late for dinner was the only fault of mine the blame of 
which he would not take on his own shoulders. The fact on 
this occasion was, that I could not get my hair right. It was 
the first time I missed what I had been used to, and longed 
for the deft fingers of my mother’s maid to help me. When I 
told him the cause, he said he would do my hair for me next 
time, if I would teach him how. But I have managed very 
weli since without either him or a lady’s maid. 

When we reached Bolivar Square, we found the company 
waiting; and as if for a rebuke to us, the butler announced 
dinner the moment we entered. I was seated between 
Mr. Morley and a friend of his who took me down, Mr. Bad- 
deley, a portly gentleman, with an expanse of snowy shirt, from 
which flashed three diamond studs. A huge gold chain 
reposed upon his front, and on his finger shone a brilliant of 
great size. Everything about him seemed to say, “ Look how 
real I am i No shoddy about me ! ” His hands were plump 
and white, and looked as if they did not know what dust was. 
His talk sounded very rich, and yet there was no pretence in 
it. His wife looked U.ss of a lady than he of a gentleman, for 
she betrayed conscious importance. I found afterwards that 
he was the only son of a railway contractor, who had himself 
handled the spade, but at last died enormously rich. He spoke 
blandly, but with a certain quiet authority which I disliked. 


34 


The Vicar’s Daughter, 

“ Are you fond of the opera, Mrs. Percivale ? ” he asked me 
in order to make talk. 

“ I have never been to the opera,” I answered. 

‘‘Never been to the opera ? Ain’t you fond of music ?*• 

“ Did you ever know a lady that wasn’t ? ” 

“ Then you must go to the opera.” 

“ But it is just because I fancy myself fond of music that I 
don’t think I should like the opera.” 

“ You can’t hear such music anywhere else.” 

“ But the antics of the singers, pretending to be in such 
furies of passion, yet modulating every note with the cunning 
of a carver in ivory, seems to me so preposterous! For surely 
song springs from a brooding over past feeling—I do not mean 
lost feeling—never from present emotion.” 

“ Ah ! you would change your mind after having once been. 
I should strongly advise you to go, if only for once. You 
ought now, really.” 

“ An artist’s wife must do without such expensive amuse¬ 
ments—except her husband’s pictures be very popular indeed. 
I might as well cry for the moon. The cost of a box at the 
opera for a single night would keep my little household for a 
fortnight.” 

“Ah, well —but you should see ‘The Barber,”’ he said. 

“Perhaps if I could hear without seeing, I should like it 
better,” I answered. 

He fell silent, busying himself with his fish, and when he 
spoke again turned to the lady on his left. I went on with my 
dinner. I knew that our host had heard what I said, for I saw 
him turn rather hastily to his butler. 

Mr. Morley is a man difficult to describe, stiff in the back, 
and long and loose in the neck, reminding me of those toy 
birds that bob head and tail up and down alternately. When 
he agrees with anything you say, down comes his head with a 
rectangular nod; when he does not agree with you, he is so 
silent and motionless that he leaves you in doubt whether he 
has heard a word of what you have been saying. His face is 


“ Good Society!* 35 

hard, and was to me then inscrutable ; while what he said 
always seemed to have little or nothing to do with what he was 
thinking; and I had not then learned whether he had a heart 
or not. His features were well-formed, but they and his head 
and face too small for his body. He seldom smiled except 
when in doubt. He had, I understood, been very successful 
in business, and always looked full of schemes. 

“ Have you been to the Academy yet ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ No ; this is only the first day of it.” 

“ Are your husband’s pictures well hung ? ” 

“As high as Human,” I answered; “—skied, in fact. That 
is the right word, I believe.” 

“ I would advise you to avoid slang, my dear cousin—pro- 
fessional slang especially; and to remember that in London 
there are no professions after six o’clock.” 

“ Indeed ! ” I returned. “ As we came along in the carriage 
—cabbage, I mean—I saw no end of shops open.” 

“ I mean in society—at dinner—amongst friends, you 
know.” 

“ My dear Mr. Morley, you have just done asking me about 
my husband’s pictures, and if you listen a moment you will 
hear that lady next my husband talking to him about Leslie 
and Turner, and I don’t know who more—all in the trade.” 

“ Hush! hush! I beg,” he almost whispered, looking 
agonized. “ That’s Mrs. Baddeley. Her husband, next to you, 
is a great picture-buyer. That’s why I asked him to meet you.” 

“ 1 thought there were no professions in London after six 
o’clock.” 

“ I am afraid I have not made my meaning quite clear to 
you.” 

“Not quite. Yet I think I understand you.” 

“ We’ll have a talk about it another time.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

It irritated me rather that he should talk to me, a married 
woman, as to a little girl who did not knowhow to behave her¬ 
self; but his patronage of my husband displeased me far more, 

D 2 


$6 The Vicar^s Daughter, 

and I was on the point of committing the terrible blundfj of 
asking Mr. Baddeley if he had any poor relations; but I 
checked myself in time, and prayed to know whether he was 
a member of Parliament. He answered that he was not in 
the house at present, and asked in return why I had wished to 
know. I answered that I wanted a bill brought in for the 
punishment of fraudulent milkmen, for I couldn’t get a decent 
pennyworth of milk in all Camden Town. He laughed, and 
said it would be a very desirable measure, only too great an 
interference with the liberty of the subject. I told him that 
kind of liberty was just what law in general owed its existence 
to, and was there on purpose to interfere with ; but he did not 
seem to see it. 

The fact is I was very silly. Proud of being the wife of an 
artist, I resented the social injustice which I thought gave 
artists no place but one of sufferance. Proud also of being 
poor for Percivale’s sake, I made a show of my poverty before 
people whom I supposed, rightly enough in many cases, to be 
proud of their riches. But I knew nothing of what poverty 
really meant, and was as yet only playing at being poor; 
cherishing a foolish, though unacknowledged notion of pro¬ 
tecting my husband’s poverty with the aegis of my position as 
the daughter of a man of consequence in his county. I was 
thus wronging the dignity of my husband’s position, and com¬ 
plimenting wealth by making so much of its absence. Poverty 
or wealth ought to have been in my eyes such a trifle, that I 
never thought of publishing whether I was rich or poor. I 
ought to have taken my position without wasting a thought on 
what it might appear in the eyes of those about me, meeting 
them on the mere level of humanity, and leaving them to settle 
with themselves how they were to think of me, and where they 
were to place me. I suspect also, now that I think of it, that 
I looked down upon my cousin Judy because she had a mere 
man of business for her husband; forgetting that our Lord had 
found a collector of conquered taxes, a man, I presume, with 
little enough of the artistic about him, one of the fittest in his 


A Rtfuge from the Heat 37 

nation to bear the message of his redemption to the hearts of 
his countrymen. It is his loves and his hopes, not his visions 
and intentions, by which a man is to be judged. My father 
had taught me all this, but I did not understand it then, nor 
until years after I had left him. 

“ Is Mrs. Percivale a lady of fortune ? ” asked Mr, Baddeley 
of my cousin Judy when we were gone, for we were the first 
to leave. 

“ Certainly not. Why do you ask ? ” she returned. 

“Because, from her talk, I thought she must be,’* he 
answered. 

Cousin Judy told me this the next day, and I could see she 
thought I had been bragging of my family. So I recounted all 
the conversation I had had with him, as nearly as I could 
recollect, and set down the question to an impertinent irony. 
But I have since changed my mind: I now judge that he 
could not believe any poor person would joke about poverty. 
I never found one of those people who go about begging for 
charities believe me when I told him the simple truth that I 
could not afford to subscribe. None but a rich person, they 
seem to think, would dare such an excuse, and that only in 
the just expectation that its very assertion must render it 
incrediUe. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A REFUGE FROM THE HEAT. 

There was a little garden, one side enclosed by the house, 
another by the studio, and the remaining two by walls, evidently 
built for the nightly convenience of promenading cats. There 
was one pear-tree in the grass plot which occupied the centre, 
and a few small fruit trees, which, I may now safely say, never 


38 The Vicai^s Daughter, 

bore anything, upon the walls. But the last occupant had 
cared for his garden, and when I came to the cottage it was, 
although you would hardly believe it now that my garden is 
inside the house, a pretty little spot—only if you stop thinking 
about a garden, it begins at once to go to the bad. Used 
although I had been to great wide lawns and park and 
gardens and wilderness, the tiny enclosure soon became to 
me the type of the boundless universe. The streets roared 
about me with ugly omnibuses and uglier cabs, fine carriages, 
huge earth-shaking drays, and, worse far, with the cries of all 
the tribe of costermongers—one especially offensive which 
soon began to haunt me. I almost hated the man who sent it 
forth to fill the summer air with disgust. He always put his 
hollowed hand to his jaw, as if it were loose and he had to 
hold it in its place, before he uttered his hideous howl, which 
would send me hurrying up the stairs to bury my head under 
all the pillows of my bed until, coming back across the wilder¬ 
ness of streets and lanes like the cry of a jackal growing 
fainter and fainter upon the wind, it should pass and die away 
in the distance. Suburban London, I say, was roaring about 
me, and I was confined to a few square yards of grass and 
gravel walk and flower plot; but above was the depth of the 
sky, and thence at night the hosts of heaven looked in upon me 
with the same calm assured glance with which they shone upon 
southern forests, swarming with great butterflies and creatures 
that go flaming through the tropic darkness; and there the 
moon would come and cast her lovely shadows; and there 
was room enough to feel alone and to try to pray. And what 
was strange, the room seemed greater, though the loneliness 
was gone, when my husband walked up and down in it with 
me. True, the greater part of the walk seemed to be the 
turnings, for they always came just whe?i you wanted to go on 
and on ; but even with the scope of the world for your walk, 
you must turn and come back some time. At first, when he was 
smoking his great brown meerschaum, he and I would walk 
in opposite directions, passing each other in the middle, and 


39 


A Reftige from the Heat, 

so make the space double the size, for he had all the garden 
to himself, and I had it all to myself; and so I had his garden 
and mine too. That is how by degrees I got able to bear 
the smoke of tobacco, for I had never been used to it, and 
found it a small trial at first, but now I have got actually to like 
it, and greet a stray whiff from the study like a message from my 
husband. I fancy I could tell the smoke of that old black 
and red meerschaum from the smoke of any other pipe in 
creation. 

“ You cure him of that bad habit,” said cousin Judy 
to me once. 

It made me angry. What right had she to call anything my 
husband did a bad habit? and to expect me to agree with her was 
ten limes worse. I am saving my money now to buy him a grand 
new pipe; and I may just mention here, that once I spent 
ninepence out of my last shilling to get him a packet of Bristol 
bird^s-eye, for he was on the point of giving up smoking 
altogether because of—well, because of what will appear by- 
and-by. 

England is getting dreadfully crowded with mean, ugly 
houses. If they were those of the poor and struggling, and not 
of the rich and comfortable, one might be consoled. But rich 
barbarism, in the shape of ugliness, is again pushing us to the 
sea. There, however, its “ control stops ; ” and since I lived 
in London the sea has grown more precious to me than it was 
even in those lovely days at Kilkhaven—merely because no one 
can build upon it. Ocean and sky remain as God made them. 
He must love space for us, though it be needless for himself; 
seeing that in all the magnificent notions of creation afforded 
us by astronomers—shoal upon shoal of suns, each the centre of 
complicated and infinitely varied systems—the spaces between 
are yet more overwhelming in their vast inconceivableness. 
I thank God for the room he thus gives us, and hence can 
endure to see the fair face of his England disfigured by the 
mud-pies of his children. 

There was in the garden a little summer-house, of which I was 


40 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

very fond, chiefly because, knowing my passion for the flower, 
Percivale had surrounded it with a multitude of sweet-peas, 
which as they grew, he had trained over the trellis-work of its 
sides. Through them filtered the sweet airs of the summer as 
through an .^olian harp of unheard harmonies. To sit thei^ 
in a warm evening, when the moth-airs just woke and gave 
two or three wafts of their wings and ceased, was like sitting in 
the midst of a small gospel. 

The summer had come on, and the days were very hot—sc 
hot and changeless, with their unclouded skies and their 
glowing centre, that they seemed to grow stupid with their 
own heat. It was as if—like a hen brooding over her 
('.hickens—the day, brooding over its coming harvest, grew 
dull and sleepy, living only in what was to come. Notwith¬ 
standing the feelings I have just recorded, I began to long for 
a wider horizon, whence some wind might come and blow 
upon me, and wake me up, not merely to live, but to know 
that I lived. 

One afternoon, I left my little summer-seat, where I had 
been sitting at work, and went through the house, and down 
the precipice, into my husband’s study. 

** It is so hot,” I said, “ I will try my little grotto \ it may 
be cooler.” 

He opened the door for me, and, with his palette on his 
thumb, and a brush in his hand, sat down for a moment beside 
me. 

** This heat is too much for you, darling,” he said. 

“ I do feel it. I wish I could get from the garden into my 
nest without going up through the house and down the Jacob’s 
ladder,” I said. “ It is so hot! I never felt heat like it 
before.” 

He sat silent for awhile, and then said : 

“ I’ve been thinking I must get you into the country for a 
few weeks. It would do you no end of good.” 

I suppose the wind does blow somewhere,” 1 returned 
“ But—” 


41 


d Refuge from the Heat. 

•' You don’t ws nt to leave me ? ” he said. 

“ I don’t. And I know with that ugly portrait on hand you 
can’t go with me.” 

He happened to be painting the portrait of a plain red-faced 
lady, in a delicate lace cap—a very unfit subject for art—much 
needing to be made over again first, it seemed to me. Only 
there she was, with a right to have her portrait painted if she 
wished it; and there was Percivale, with time on his hands 
and room in his pockets, and the faith that whatever God had 
thought worth making could not be unworthy of representa¬ 
tion. Hence he had willingly undertaken a likeness of her, to be 
finished within a certain time, and was now working at it as 
conscientiously as if it had been the portrait of a lovely young 
duchess or peasant girl. I was only afraid he would make it too 
like to please the lady herself. His time was now getting 
short, and he could not leave home before fulfilling his engage¬ 
ment. 

“ But,” he returned, “ why shouldn’t you go to the Hall for 
a week or two without me ? I will take you down and come 
and fetch you.” 

“ I’m so stupid you want to get rid of me! ” I said. 

I did not in the least believe it, and yet was on the edge of 
crying, which is not a habit with me. 

“You know better than that, my Wynnie,” he answered 
gravely. “ You want your mother to comfort you. And there 
must be some air in the country. So tell Sarah to put up your 
things, and I’ll take you down to-morrow morning. When I 
get this portrait done, I will come and stay a few days, if they 
will have me, and then take you home.” 

The thought of seeing my mother and my father, and the 
old place, came over me with a rush. I felt all at once as if I 
had been absent for years instead of weeks. I cried in earnest 
now—with delight though—and there is no shame in that. 
So it was all arranged, and next afternoon I was lying on a 
couch in the yellow c rawing-room, with my mother seated 
beside me, a.nd Connie in an easy-chair by the open window, 


4 2 The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

through which came every now and then such a sweet \me of 
air as bathed me with hope, and seemed to wash all the noises, 
even the loose-jawed man’s hateful howl, from my brain. 

Yet, glad as I was to be once more at home, I felt, when 
Percivale left me the next morning to return by a third-class 
train to his ugly portrait, for the lady was to sit to him that 
same afternoon, that the idea of home was already leaving 
Oldcastle Plall, and flitting back to the suburban cottage 
haunted by the bawling voice of the costermonger. 

But I soon felt better, for here there was plenty of shadow, 
and in the hottest days my father could always tell where any 
wind would be stirring; for he knew every out and in of the 
place like his own pockets, as Dora said, who took a little after 
cousin Judy in her way. It will give a notion of his tender¬ 
ness if I set down just one tiniest instance of his attention to 
me. The forenoon was oppressive. I was sitting under a 
tree, trying to read when he came up to me. There was a 
wooden gate, with open bars near. He went and set it wide, 
saying,— 

“ There, my love 1 You will fancy yourself cooler if I leave 
the gate open.” 

Will my reader laugh at me for mentioning such a trifle ? I 
think not, for it went deep to my heart, and I seemed to know 
God better for it ever after. A father is a great and marvellous 
truth, and one you can never get at the depth of, try how you 

may. 

I Then my mother! She was if possible yet more to me than 
■ my father. I could tell her anything and everything without 
fear, while I confess to a little dread of my father still. He is 
too like my own conscience to allow of my being quite con¬ 
fident with him. But Connie is just as comfortable with him 
as I am with my mother. If in r y childhood I was ever 
tempted to conceal anything from her, the very thought of it 
made me miserable until I had told her. And now she would 
i Watch me with her gentle dove-like eyes, and seemed to know 
once, without being told, what was the matter with me- 


Catme, 


43 

She never asked me what I should like, but went and brought 
something, and if she saw that I didn’t care for it, wouldn’t press 
me, or offer anything instead, but chat for a minute or two, carry 
it away, and return with something else. My heart was like to 
break at times with the swelling of the love that was in it. My 
eldest child, my Ethelwyn—for my husband would have her 
called the same name as me, only I insisted it should be after 
my mother and not after me—has her very eyes, and for years 
has been trying to mother me over again to the best of her 
sweet ability 


CHAPTER VII. 

CONNIE. 

It is high time though that I dropped writing about myself 
for a while. I don’t find myself so interesting as it used to be. 

The worst of some kinds especiall)’ of small illnesses is that 
they make you think a great deal too much about yourself. 
Connie’s, which was a great and terrible one, never made her 
do so. She was always forgetting herself in her interest about 
others. I think I was made more selfish to begin with ; and 
yet I have a hope that a too-much-thinking about yourself may 
not always be pure selfishness. It may be something else 
wrong in you that makes you uncomfortable, and keeps 
drawing your eyes towards the aching place. I will hope so 
till I get rid of the whole business, and then I shall not care 
much how it came or what it was. 

Connie was now a thin, pale, delicate-looking—not hand¬ 
some, but lovely girl. Her eyes, some people said, were too 
big for her face, but that seemed to me no more to the discredit 
of her beauty than it would have been a reproach to say 
that her soul was too big for her body. She had been early 
ripened by the hot sun of suffering, and the self-restraint which 


44 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

pain had taught her. Patience had mossed her over, jand made 
her warm and soft and sweet. She never looked for attention, 
but accepted all that was offered with a smile which seemed 
to say—“It is more than I need, but you are so good I 
mustn’t spoil it.” She was not confined to her sofa now, 
though she needed to lie down often, but could walk about 
pretty well, only you must give her time. You could always 
make her merry by saying she walked like an old woman; and 
it was the only way we could get rid of the sadness of seeing it. 
We betook ourselves to her to laugh her sadness away from us. 

Once, as I lay on a couch on the lawn, she came towards me 
carrying a bunch of grapes from the greenhouse—a great 
bunch, each individual grape ready to burst with the sunlight 
it had bottled up in its swollen purple skin. 

“ They are too heavy for you, old lady,” I cried. 

“Yes; I am an old lady,” she answered. “Think what 
good use of my time I have made compared with you! I 
have got ever so far before you : I’ve nearly forgotten how to 
walk ! ” 

The tears gathered in my eyes as she left me with the bunch, 
for how could one help being sad to think of the time when she 
used to bound like a fawn over the grass, her slender figure 
borne like a feather on its own slight yet firm muscles, which 
used to knot so much harder than any of ours. She turned 
to say something, and, perceiving my emotion, came slowly back. 

“ Dear Wynnie,” she said, “ you wouldn’t have me back 
with my old foolishness, would you ? Believe me life is ten 
times more precious than it was before. I feel, and enjoy, ana 
love so much more ! I don’t know how often I thank God foi 
what befell me.” 

I could only smile an answer, unable to speak, not now 
from pity, but from shame of my own petulant restlessness 
and impatient helplessness. 

I believe she had a special affection for poor Sprite, the pony 
which threw her—special I mean since the accident—regarding 
him as in some sense the angel which had driven her out of 


Connie, 


45 


paradise into a better world. If ever he got loose, and 
Connie was anywhere about, he was sure to find her: he was an 
omnivorous animal, and she had always something he would 
eat when his favourite apples were unattainable. More than 
once she had been roused from her sleep on the lawn by the 
lips and the breath of Sprite upon her face ; but, although one 
painful sign of her weakness was, that she started at the least 
noise or sudden discovery of a presence, she never started at 
the most unexpected intrusion of Sprite, any more than at the 
voice of my father or mother. Need I say there was one more 
whose voice or presence never startled her ? 

The relation between them was lovely to see. Turner was a 
fine, healthy, broad-shouldered fellow, of bold\ carriage and frank 
manners, above the middle height, with rather large features, 
keen black eyes, and great personal strength. Yet to such a 
man, poor little wan-faced big-eyed Connie assumed imperious 
airs, mostly, but perhaps not entirely, for the fun of it j while he 
looked only enchanted every time she honoured him with a 
little tyranny. 

** There! I’m tired,” she would say, holding out her arms like 
a baby. “ Carry me in.” 

And the great strong man would stoop with a worshipping 
look in his eyes, and taking her carefully would carry her in as 
lightly, and gently, and steadily, as if she had been but the baby 
whose manners she had for the moment assumed. This began, 
of course, when she was unable to walk, but it did not stop 
then, for she would occasionally tell him to carry her after she 
was quite capable of crawling at least. They had now been 
engaged for some months, and before me, as a newly-married 
woman, they did not mind talking a little. 

One day she was lying on a rug on the lawn, with him 
on the grass beside her, leaning on his elbow, and looking 
down into her sky-like eyes. She lifted her hand and stroked 
his moustache with a forefinger, while he kept as still as a 
statue, or one who fears to scare the bird that is picking up the 
crumbs at his feet. 


46 


TJu Vicat^s Daughter, 

“ Poor, poor man! ” she said; and from the tone I knew the 
tears had begun to gather in those eyes. 

“ Why do you pity me, Connie ?” he asked. 

“ Because you will have such a wretched little creature foi 
a wife some day—or perhaps never—which would be best after 
all.” 

He answered cheerily,— 

“ If you will kindly allow me my choice, I prefer just such 
a wretched little creature to any one else in the world.” 

“ And why, pray ? Give a good reason, and I will forgive 
your bad taste.” 

“ Because she won’t be able to hurt me much when she beats 
me.” 

“ A better reason, or she will.” 

“ Because I can punish her if she isn’t good by taking her up 
in my arms and carrying her about until she gives in.” 

“ A better reason, or 1 shall be naughty directly.” 

‘‘ Because I shall always know where to find her.’* 

“ Ah, yes; she must leave you to find her. But that’s a 
silly reason. If you don’t give me a better, I’ll get up and 
walk into the house.” 

“ Because there won’t be any waste of me. Will that do ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” she asked with mock imperiousness. 

“ I mean that I shall be able to lay not only my heart but 
my brute strength at her feet. I shall be allowed to be her 
beast of burden, to carry her whither she would ; and so with 
my body her to worship more than most husbands have a 
chance of worshipping their wives.” 

“ There ! lake me, take me ! ” she said, stretching up her 
arms to him. “ How good you are ! I don’t deserve such 
a great man one bit. But I will love him. Take me directly, 
for there’s Wynnie listening to every word we say to each other, 
and laughing at us. She can laugh without looking like it” 

The fact is I was crying, and the creature knew it. 
Turner brought her to me, and held her down for me to kiss; 
then carried her in to her mother. 


47 


Connie's Baby, 

I believe the county people round considered our family far 
gone on the inclined plane of degeneracy. First, my mother, 
the heiress, had married a clergyman of no high family; 
then they had given their eldest daughter to a poor artist, 
something of the same standing as—well, I will be rude to 
no order of humanity, and therefore avoid comparisons; and 
now it was generally known that Connie was engaged to a 
country practitioner, a man who made up his own prescrip¬ 
tions. We talked and laughed over certain remarks of the 
kind that reached us, and compared our two with the gentle¬ 
men about us—in no way to the advantage of any of the latter, 
you may be sure. It was silly work; but we were only two 
loving girls with the best possible reasons for being proud of 
the men who had honoured us with their love. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Connie’s baby. 

It is time I told my readers something about the little Theo¬ 
dora. She was now nearly four years old, I think—a dark- 
skinned, lithe-limbed, wild little creature, very pretty—at least, 
most people said so, while others insisted that she had a com¬ 
mon look. I admit she was not like a lady’s child—only one 
has seen ladies’ children look common enough; neither did she 
look like the child of working people—though amongst such 
again one sees sometimes a child the oldest family in England 
might be proud of. The fact is, she had a certain tinge of the 
savage about her, specially manifest in a certain furtive look of 
her black eyes, with which she seemed now and then to be 
measuring you, and her prospects in relation to you. I have 
seen the child of cultivated parents sit and stare at a stranger 
from her stool in the most persistent manner, never withdrawing 
her eyes, as if she would pierce to his soul, and understand by 


48 The Vicat^s Daughter. 

very force of insight whether he was or was not one to be 
honoured with her confidence; and I have often seen the side¬ 
long glance of sly merriment, or loving shyness, or small 
coquetry ; but I have never, in any other child, seen that look 
of self-protective speculation; and it used to make me uneasy, 
for, of course, like every one else in the house, I loved the 
child. She was a wayward, often unmanageable creature, but 
affectionate—sometimes after an insane, or, at least, very ape¬ 
like fashion. Every now and then she would take an unaccount¬ 
able preference for some one of the family or household, at one 
time for the old housekeeper, at another for the stable-boy, al 
another for one of us; in which fits of partiality she would 
always turn a blind and deaf side upon every one else, actually 
seeming to imagine she showed the strength of her love to th« 
one by the paraded exclusion of the others. I cannot tell how 
much of this was natural to her, and how much the result of the 
foolish and injurious jealousy of the servants. I say servants^ 
because I know such an influencing was all but impossible in the 
family itself. If my father heard any one utter such a phrase as 
“ Don’t you love me best ”—or, “ better than ” such a one ? or, 
“ Ain’t I your favourite ? ”—well, you all know my father, and 
know him really, for he never wrote a word he did not believe— 
but you would have been astonished, I venture to think, and 
perhaps at first bewildered as well, by the look of indignation 
flashed from his eyes. He was not the gentle, all-excusing man 
some readers, I know, fancy him from his writings. He was 
gentle even to tenderness when he had time to think a moment, 
and in any quiet judgment he always took as much the side of 
the offender as was possible with any likelihood of justice; 
but in the first moments of contact with what he thought bad 
m principle, and that in the smallest trifle, he would speak 
words that made even those who were not included in the con¬ 
demnation tremble with sympathetic fear. “ There, Harry, you 
take it—quick, or Charley will have it,” said the nurse one day, 
little thinking who overheard her. “ Woman ! ” cried a voice 
s)f wrath from the corridor, “ do you know what you are doing ? 


49 


Counters Baby, 

Would you make him two-fold more the child of hell than your¬ 
self ? ” An hour after, she was sent for to the study; and when 
she came out her eyes were very red. My father was unusually 
silent at dinner; and after the younger ones were gone, he 
turned to my mother, and said :—“ Ethel, I spoke the truth. 
All that is of the devil—horribly bad; and yet I am more to 
blame in my condemnation of them than she for the words 
themselves. The thought of so polluting ihe mind of a child 
makes me fierce, and the wrath of man worketh not the 
righteousness of God. The old Adam is only too glad to get 
a word in, if even in behalf of his supplanting successor.^* Then 
he rose, and taking my mother by the arm, walked away with 
her. I confess I honoured him for his self-condemnation 
the most. I must add that the offending nurse had been ten 
years in the family, and ought to have known better. 

But to return to Theodora. She was subject to attacks of the 
most furious passion, especially when anything occurred to 
thwart the indulgence of the ephemeral partiality I have just 
described. Then, wherever she was, she would throw herself 
down at once—on the floor, on the walk or lawn, or, as 
happened on one occasion, in the water—and kick and 
scream. At such times she cared nothing even for my father, 
of whom generally she stood in considerable awe—a feeling he 
rather encouraged. “ She has plenty of people about her to 
represent the gospel,” he said once; “ I will keep the depart¬ 
ment of the law, without which she never will appreciate the 
gospel. My part will, I trust, vanish in due time, and the law 
turn out to have been, after all, only the imperfect gospel, just 
as the leaf is the imperfect flower. But the gospel is no gospel 
till it gets into the heart, and it sometimes wants a torpedo to 
blow the gates of that open.” For no torpedo or Krupp gun, 
however, did Theodora care at such times ; and after repeated 
experience of the inefficacy of coaxing, my father gave orders that, 
when a fit occurred, every one, without exception, should not 
merely leave her alone, but go out of sight, and if possible out of 
hearing—-at least out of her hearing—that she might know she had 

E 


50 


The VicaT^s Daughter 

driven her friends far from her, and be brought to a sense of loneli* 
ness and need. I am pretty sure that if she had been one of us, 
that is, one of his own, he would have taken sharper measures 
with her; but he said we must never attempt to treat other 
people’s children as our own, for they are not our own. We 
did not love them enough, he said, to make severity safe either 
for them or for us. 

The plan worked so far well, that, after a time varied in 
length according to causes inscrutable, she would always re¬ 
appear smiling; but as to any conscience of wrong, she seemed 
to have no more than nature herself, who looks out with her 
smiling face after hours of thunder, lightning, and rain ; and, 
although this treatment brought her out of them sooner, the 
fits themselves came quite as frequently as before. 

But she had another habit, more alarming, and more trouble¬ 
some as well: she would not unfrequently vanish, and have to 
be long sought, for in such case she never reappeared of her- 
s'ilf. What made it so alarming was that there were dangerous 
places about our house \ but she would generally be found 
seated, perfectly quiet, in some out-of-the-way nook where she 
had never been before, playing, not with any of her toys, but 
with something she had picked up and appropriated, finding 
in it some shadowy amusement which no one understood but 
herself. 

She was very fond of bright colours, especially in dress; 
and if she found a brilliant or gorgeous fragment of any sub¬ 
stance, would be sure to hide it away in some hole or corner, 
perhaps known only to herself. Her love of approbation was 
strong, and her affection demonstrative, but she had not yet 
learned to speak the truth. In a word she must, we thought, 
have come of wild parentage, so many of her ways were like 
those of a forest animal. 

In our design of training her for a maid to Connie, we 
seemed already likely enough to be frustrated; at all events 
there was nothing to encourage the attempt, seeing she had 
some sort of aversion to Connie, amounting almost to dread 


51 


Coiiniis Baby. 

We could rarely persuade her to go near her. Perhaps it was 
a dislike lo her helplessness—some vague impression that hei 
lying all day on the sofa indicated an unnatural condition of 
being, with which she could have no sympathy. Those of us 
who had the highest spirits, the greatest exuberance of animal 
life, were evidently those whose society was most attractive to 
her. Connie tried all she could to conquer her dislike, and 
entice the wayward thing to her heart, but nothing would do. 
Sometimes she would seem to soften for a moment, but all 
at once, with a wriggle and a backward spasm in the arms 
of the person who carried her, she would manifest such a 
fresh access of repulsion, that for fear of an outburst of fierce 
and objurgatory wailing which might upset poor Connie 
altogether, she would be borne off hurriedly—sometimes, I 
confess, rather ungently as well. I have seen Connie cry 
because of the child’s treatment of her. 

You could not interest her so much in any story but that if 
the buzzing of a fly, the flutter of a bird, reached eye or ear, 
away she would dart on the instant, leaving the discomfited 
narrator in lonely disgrace. External nature and almost 
nothing else had free access to her mind: at the suddenest sight 
or sound, she was alive on the instant. She was a most amusing 
and sometimes almost bewitching little companion, but the 
delight in her would be not unfrequently quenched by some 
altogether unforeseen outbreak of heartless petulance or turbu¬ 
lent rebellion. Indeed her resistance to authority grew as she 
grew older, and occasioned my father and mother, and indeed 
all of us, no little anxiety. Even Charley and Harry would 
stand with open mouths contemplating aghast the unheard-of 
atrocity of resistance to the will of the unquestioned authorities. 
It was what they could not understand, being to them an im¬ 
possibility. Such resistance was almost always accompanied 
by storm and tempest, and the treatment which carried away 
the latter, generally carried away the former with it: after the 
passion had come and gone, she would obey. Had it been 
otherwise—had she been sullen and obstinate as well—I do not 

£ 2 


52 The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

know what would have come of it or how we could have got 
on at all. Miss Bowdler, I am afraid, would have had a very 
satisfactory crow over papa. I have seen him sit for minutes 
in silent contemplation of the little puzzle, trying no doubt to 
fit her into his theories, or as my mother said, to find her a ^ 
three-legged stool and a corner somewhere in the kingdom of 
heaven; and we were certain something or other would come 
out of that pondering, though whether the same night or a 
twelvemonth after, no one could tell. I believe the main result 
of his thinking was that he did less and less with her. 

“Why do you take so little notice of the child?** my 
mother said to him one evening. “ It is all your doing that 
she is here, you know. You mustn’t cast her off now.** 

“ Cast her off ! ** exclaimed my father ; “ what dc? you mean, 
Ethel?** 

“ You never speak to her now.** 

“ Oh yes I do, sometimes.** 

“ Why only sometimes ? ** 

“ Because—I believe because I am a little afraid of her. I 
don’t know how to attack the small enemy. She seems to be 
bomb-proof, and generally impregnable.*’ 

“ But you mustn’t therefore make her afraid oiyou.^* 

“ I don’t know that. I suspect it is my only chance with her. 
She wants a little of Mount Sinai, in order that she may know 
where the manna comes from. But indeed I am laying myself 
out only to catch the little soul. I am but watching and pon¬ 
dering how to reach her. I am biding my time to come in with 
my small stone for the building up of this temple of the Holy 
Ghost” 

At that very moment—in the last fold of the twilight, with the 
moon rising above the wooded brow of Gorman Slope—the 
nurse came through the darkening air, her figure hardly distin¬ 
guishable from the dusk, saying,— 

“ Please, ma’am, have you seen Miss Theodora ? ** 

“ I don’t want you to call her mtsSf' said my father. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said the nurse : “ I forgot.” 


53 


Connies Baby. 

" I have not seen her for an hour or more,” said my mother. 

“I declare,” said my father. I’ll get a retriever pup, and 
train him to find Theodora. He will be capable in a few 
months, and she will be foolish for years.” 

Upon this occasion the truant was found in the apple-loft, 
sitting in a corner upon a heap of straw, quite in the dark. She 
was discovered only by the munching of her little teeth, for 
she had found some wizened apples, and was busy devouring 
them. But my father actually did what he had said : a 
favourite spaniel had pups a few days after, and he took one 
of them in hand. In an incredibly short space of time, the long- 
drawn nose of Wagtail, as the children had named him, in which, 
doubtless, was gathered the experience of many thoughtful 
generations, had learned to track Theodora to whatever retreat 
she might have chosen ; and very amusing it was to watch the 
course of the proceedings. Some one would come running to 
my father with the news that Theo was in hiding. Then my 
father would give a peculiar whistle, and Wagtail, who (I must 
say who) very seldom failed to respond, would come bounding 
to his side. It was necesssary that my father should lay him on 
(is that the phrase?), for he would heed no directions from any 
one else. It was not necessary to follow him, however, which 
would have involved a tortuous and fatiguing pursuit; but in a 
little while a joyous barking would be heard, always kept up until 
the ready pursuers were guided by the sound to the place. 
There Theo was certain to be found hugging the animal, with¬ 
out the least notion of the traitorous character of his blandish¬ 
ments : it was long before she began to discover that there W 2 s 
danger in that dog’s nose. Thus Wagtail became a very im¬ 
portant member of the family—a bond of union, in fact, be¬ 
tween its parts. Theo’s disappearances, however, became less 
and less frequent—not that she made fewer attempts to abscond, 
but that, every one knowing how likely she was to vanish, who¬ 
ever she was with had come to feel the necessity of keeping 
both eyes upon her. 


54 


TJte Vicar's Daughter^ 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE FOUNDLING RE-FOUND. 

One evening, during this my first visit to my home, Tv e had 
gone to take tea with the widow of an old servant, who lived 
in a cottage on the outskirts of the home farm—Connie and I 
in the pony carriage, and my father and mother on foot. It 
was quite dark when we returned, for the moon was late. 
Connie and I got home first, though we had a good round to 
make and the path across the fields was but a third of the dis¬ 
tance, for my father and mother were lovers, and sure to be 
late when left out by themselves. When we arrived, there was 
no one to take the pony, and when I rang the bell, no one 
answered. I could not leave Connie in the carriage to go and 
look, so we waited and waited till we were getting very tired, 
and glad indeed we were to hear the voices of my father and 
mother as they came through the shrubbery. My mother 
went to the rear to make inquiry, and came back with the news 
that Theo was missing, and that they had been searching for her 
in vair for nearly an hour. My father instantly called Wagtail, 
and sent him after her. We then got Connie in, and laid her 
on the sofa, where I kept her company while the rest went in 
different directions, listening from what quarter would come the 
welcome voice of the dog. This was so long delayed, however, 
that my father began to get alarmed. At last he whistled very 
loud, and in a little while Wagtail came creeping to his feet, 
with his tail between his legs—no wag left in it—clearly ashamed 
of himself. My father was now thoroughly frightened, and 
began questioning the household as to the latest knowledge of 
the child. It then occurred to one of the servants to mention that 
a strange-looking woman had been seen about the place in the 
morning—a tall, dark woman, with a gipsy look. She had 
come begging, but my father’s orders were so strict concerning 
such cases that nothing had been given her, and she had gone 


55 


The Foundling Re-found» 

away in anger. As soon as he heard this my father ordered 
his horse, and told two of the men to get ready to accompany 
him. In the meantime, he came to us in the little drawing¬ 
room, trying to look calm, but evidently in much perturbation. 
He said he had little doubt the woman had taken her. 

“ Could it be her mother ? said my mother. 

“ Who can tell ? returned my father. “ It is the less likely 
that the deed seems to have been prompted by revenge.” 

“ If she be a gipsy’s child—” said my mother. 

I'he gipsies,” interrupted my father, “ have always been 
more given to taking other people’s cliildren than forsaking 
their own. But one of them might have had reason for being 
ashamed of her child, and, dreading the severity of her family, 
might have abandoned it, with the intention of re-possessing 
herself of it, and passing it off as the child of gentlefolks she had 
picked up. I don’t know their habits and ways sufficiently; 
but, from what I have heard, that seems possible. However, it 
is not so easy as it might have been once to succeed in such an 
attempt. If we should fail in finding her to-night, the police 
all over the country can be apprised of the fact in a few hours, 
and the thief can hardly escape.” 

“ But if she should be the mother ? ” suggested my mother. 

“ She will have to prove that.” 

“ And then ? ” 

What then ? ” returned my father, and began pacing up and 
down the room, stopping now and then to listen for the horses’ 
hoofs, 

“ Would you give her up ? ” persisted my mother. 

Still my father made no reply. He was evidently much 
agitated—more, I fancied, by my mother’s question than by the 
present trouble. He left the room, and presently his whistle 
for Wagtail pierced the still air. A moment more, and we 
heard them all ride out of the paved yard. I had never known 
him leave my mother without an answer before. 

We who were left behind were in evil plight. There was 
not a dry eye amongst the women, I am certain, while Harry 


56 


The Vicat^s Daughter. 

was in floods of tears, and Charley was howling. We could 
not send them to bed in such a state, so we kept them with us 
in the drawing-room, where they soon fell fast asleep, one in an 
easy-chair, the other on a sheepskin mat. Connie lay quite 
still, and my mother talked so sweetly and gently that she soon ^ 
made me quiet too. But I was haunted with the idea somehow 
—I think I must have been wandering a little, for I was not 
well—that it was a child of my own that was lost out in the 
dark night, and that I could not anyhow reach her. I cannot 
explain the odd kind of feeling it was—as if a dream had wan¬ 
dered out of the region of sleep, and half-possessed my waking 
brain. Every now and then my mother’s voice would bring 
me back to my senses, and I would understand it all perfectly; 
but in a few moments I would be involved once more in a 
mazy search after my child. Perhaps, however, as it was by 
that time late, sleep had, if such a thing be possible, invaded a 
part of my brain, leaving another part able to receive the im¬ 
pressions of the external about me. I can recall some of the 
things my mother said—one in particular. 

“ It is more absurd,” she said, “ to trust God by halves, than 
it is not to believe in him at all. Your papa taught me that 
before one of you was born.” 

When my mother said anything in the way of teaching us, 
which was not often, she would generally add, “ Your papa 
taught me that,” as if she would take refuge from the assumption 
of teaching even her own girls. But we set a good deal of 
such assertion down to her modesty, and the evidently inex¬ 
tricable blending of the thought of my father with every move¬ 
ment of her mental life. 

“ I remember quite well,” she went on, ** how he made that 
truth dawn upon me one night as we sat together beside the 
old mill. Ah ! you don’t remember the old mill; it was pulled 
down while Wynnie was a mere baby.” 

** No, mamma; I remember it perfectly,” I said. 

“Do you really?—Well, we were sitting beside the mill 
one Sunday evening after service ; for we always had a walk 


The Foundling Re-found, 57 

before going home from church. You would hardly think it 
now, but after preaching he was then always depressed, and the 
more eloquently he had spoken, the more he felt as if he had 
made an utter failure. At first I thought it came only from 
fatigue, and wanted him to go home and rest; but he would 
say he liked nature to come before supper, for nature restored 
him by telling him that it was not of the slightest consequence 
if he had failed, whereas his supper only made him feel that he 
would do better next time. Well, that night, you will easily 
believe he startled me when he said, after sitting for some time 
silent, * Ethel, if that yellow-hammer were to drop down dead 
now, and God not care, God would not be God any longer.* 
Doubtless I showed myself something between puzzled and 
shocked, for he proceeded with some haste to explain to me 
how what he had said was true. ‘ Whatever belongs to God is 
essential to God,’ he said. ‘ He is one pure, clean essence of 
being, to use our poor words to describe the indescribable. 
Nothing hangs about him that does not belong to him— 
that he could part with and be nothing the worse. Still less 
is there anything he could part with and be the worse. What¬ 
ever belongs to him is of his own kind, is part of himself, so 
to speak. Therefore there is nothing indifferent to his character 
to be found in him; and therefore when our Lord says not a 
sparrow falls to the ground without our Father, that, being a 
fact with regard to God, must be an essential fact—one, namely, 
without which he could be no God.’ I understood him, I 
thought; but many a time since, when a fresh light has broken 
in upon me, I have thought I understood him then only for the 
first time. I told him so once, and he said he thought that 
would be the way for ever with all truth—we should never get 
to the bottom of any truth, because it was a vital portion of the 
all of truth, which is God.” 

I had never heard so much philosophy from my mother be¬ 
fore. I believe she was led into it by her fear of the effect our 
anxiety about the child might have upon us ; with what had 
juieted her heart in the old time she sought now to quiet ours» 


58 The Vicar's Daughter, 

helping us to trust in the great love that never ceases to watch 
And she did make us quiet. But the time glided so slowly pasi 
that it seemed immovable. 

When twelve struck, we heard in the stillness every clock in 
the house, and it seemed as if they would never have done. 
My mother left the room and came back with three shawls, 
with which, having first laid Harry on the rug, she covered the 
boys, and Dora, who also was by this time fast asleep, curled 
up at Connie’s feet. 

Still the time went on, and there was no sound of horses, or 
anything to break the silence, except the faint murmur which 
now and then the trees will make in the quietest night, as if 
they were dreaming, and talked in their sleep; for the motion 
does not seem to pass beyond them, but to swell up and die 
again in the heart of them. This and the occasional cry of 
an owl was all that broke the silent flow of the undivided 
moments—glacier-like flowing none can tell how. We seldom 
spoke, and at length the house within seemed possessed by the 
silence from without; but we were all ear—one hungry ear, 
whose famine was silence—listening intently. 

We were not so far from the high road but that on a nighi 
like this the penetrating sound of a horse’s hoofs might reach 
us. Hence, when my mother, who was keener of hearing than 
any of her daughters, at length started up, saying, “ I hear 
them! They’re coming! ” the doubt remained whether it 
might not be the sound of some night-traveller hurrying along 
that high road that she had heard. But when we also heard the 
sound of horses, we knew they must belong to our company ; 
for except the riders were within the gates, their noises could 
not have come nearer to the house. My mother hurried down 
to the hall. I would have stayed with Connie ; but she begged 
me to go too, and come back as soon as I knew the result; so 
I followed my mother. As I descended the stairs, notwith¬ 
standing my anxiety, I could not help seeing what a picture lay 
before me, for I had learned already to regard things from the 
picturesque point of view—the dim light of the low-bqrning 


The Foundling Re-found, 59 

lamp on the forward-bent heads of the listening, anxious group 
of women, my mother at the open door with the housekeeper 
and her maid, and the men-servants visible through the door in 
the moonlight beyond. 

The first news that reached me was my father’s shout the 
moment he rounded the sweep that brought him in sight of the 
house. 

“ All right! Here she is ! ” he cried. 

And ere I could reach the stair to run up to Connie, Wagtail 
was jumping upon me and barking furiously. He rushed up 
before me with the scramble of twenty feet, licked Connie's 
face all over in spite of her efforts at self-defence, then rushed 
at Dora and the boys one after the other, and woke them all 
up. He was satisfied enough with himself now; his tail was 
doing the wagging of forty ; there was no tucking of it aw^ay 
now—no drooping of the head in mute confession of conscious 
worthlessness ; he was a dog self-satisfied because his master 
was well pleased with him. 

But here I am talking about the dog, and forgetting what was 
going on below. 

My father cantered up to the door, followed by the two men. 
My mother hurried to meet him, and then only saw the little 
lost lamb asleep in his bosom. He gave her up, and my 
mother ran in with her, while he dismounted, and walked merrily 
but wearily up the stair after her. The first thing he did was 
to quiet the dog; the next, to sit down beside Connie; the 
third, to say, “ Thank God! ” and the next, “ God bless Wag¬ 
tail ! ” My mother was already undressing the little darling, 
and her maid was gone to fetch her night things. Tumbled 
hither and thither, she did not wake, but was carried off stone- 
sleeping to her crib. 

Then my father—for whom some supper, of which he was in 
great need, had been brought—as soon as he had had a gUss 
of wine and a mouthful or two of cold chicken, began to tell us 
the whcle story. 


The Vicat^s Daugnter. 


6 u 


/ 


CHAPTER X. 

WAGTAIL COMES TO HONOUR. 

As they rode out of the gate, one of the men, a trustworthy 
man, who cared for his horses like his children, and knew all 
their individualities as few men know those of their children, 
rode up alongside of my father, and told him that there was 
an encampment of gipsies on the moor about five miles away, 
just over Gorman Slope, remarking that, if the woman had 
taken the child, and belonged to them, she would certainly 
carry her thither. My father thought, in the absence of other 
indication, they ought to follow the suggestion, and told Burton 
to guide them to the place as rapidly as possible. After half 
an hour’s sharp riding, they came in view of the camp—or 
rather of a rising ground behind which it lay in the hollow. 
The other servant was an old man who had been whipper-in 
to a baronet in the next county, and knew as much of the 
ways of wild animals as Burton did of those of his horses: it 
was his turn now to address my father, who had halted for a 
moment to think what ought to be done next. 

“ She can’t well have got here before us, sir, with that child 
to carry. But it’s wonderful what the likes of her can do. I 
think I had better have a peep over the brow first. She may 
be there already or she may not; but if we find out, we shall 
know better what to do.” 

“ I'll go with you,” said my father. 

“ No, sir ; excuse me ; that won’t do. You can’t creep like 
a sarpent. I can. They’ll never know I’m a stalking of them. 
No more you couldn’t show fight if need was, you know, sir.” 

“ How did you find that out, Sim ? ” asked my father, a 
little amused notwithstanding the weight at his heart. 

“ Why, sir, they do say a clergyman mustn’t show fight.” 

Who \ 'Id you that, Sim ? ” he persisted. 


Wagtail comes to Honour, 6i 

“Well, I can’t say, sir. Only it wouldn’t be respectable— 
kvould it, sir ? ” 

“There’s nothing respectalue but what’s right, Sim, and 
.vhat’s right always is respectable, though it mayn’t look so one 
bit.” 

“ Suppose you was to get a black eye, sir ? ” 

“ Did you ever hear of the martyrs, Sim ?” 

“Yes, sir. I’ve heerd you talk on ’em in the pulpit, sir. ’ 

“ Well, they didn’t get black eyes only—they got black all 
over, you know—burnt black; and what for, do you think, 
now ? ” 

“ Don’t know, sir, except it was for doing right” 

“That’s just it Was it any disgrace to them ? ” 

“ No, sure, sir.” 

“ Well, if I were to get a black eye for the sake of the child, 
would that be any disgrace to me, Sim ? ” 

“ None that I knows on, sir. Only it’d look bad.” 

“ Yes, no doubt. People might think I had got into a row 
at the Griffin. And yet I shouldn’t be ashamed of it. I 
should count my black eye the more respectable of the two. 
I should also regard the evil judgment much as another black 
eye, and wait till they both came round again. Lead on, 
Sim.” 

They left their horses with Burton, and went towards the 
camp. But when they reached the slope behind which it lay, 
much to Sim’s discomfiture, my father, instead of lying down 
at the foot of it, as he expected, and creeping up the side of 
it, after the doom of the serpent, walked right up over the 
brow, and straight into the camp, followed by Wagtail. There 
was nothing going on—neither tinkering nor cooking; all 
seemed asleep ; but presently out of two or three of the tents, 
the dingy squalor of which no moonshine could silver over, 
came three or four men, half undressed, who demanded of my 
father, in no gentle tones, what he wanted there. 

“ I’ll tell you all about it,” he answered. “ I’m the parson 
of this parish, and therefore you’re my own people, you see.” 


62 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

“ We don^t go io your church, parson,” said one cf them. 

“I don’t care; you’re my own people for all that, and 1 
want your help.” 

“Well, what’s the matter? Whose cow’s dead?” said the 
same man. 

“ This evening,” returned my father, “ one of my children is 
missing; and a woman who might be one of your clan—mind, 
\ might be; I don’t know, and I mean no offence—but 
such a woman was seen about the place. All I want is the 
child, and if I don’t find her, I shall have to raise the county. 
I should be very sorry to disturb you; but I’m afraid, in that 
case, whether the woman be one of you or not, the place will 
be too hot for you. I’m no enemy to honest gipsies, but you 
know there is a set of tramps that call themselves gipsies who 
are nothing of the sort—only thieves. Tell me what I had 
better do to find my child. You know all about such things.” 

The men turned to each other, and began talking in under¬ 
tones, and in a language of which what my father heard he 
could not understand. At length the spokesman of the party 
addressed him again. 

“ We’ll give you our word, sir, if that will satisfy you,” he 
said, more respectfully than he had spoken before, “to send 
the child home directly if any one should bring her to our 
camp. That’s all we can say.” 

My father saw that his best chance lay in accepting the 
offer. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “ Perhaps I may have an oppor¬ 
tunity of serving you some day.” 

They in their turn thanked him politely enough, and my 
father and Sim left the camp. 

Upon this side the moor was skirted by a plantation which 
had been gradually creeping up the hill from the more sheltered 
hollow. It was here bordered by a deep trench, the bottom 
01 which was full of young firs. Through the plantation there 
was a succession of green rides, by which the outskirts of my 
father’s property could bp reached. But, the moon being now 


Wagtail comes to Honour, 63 

up» my father resolved to cross the trench, and halt foi a time, 
watching the moor from the shelter of the firs, on the chance 
of the woman’s making her appearance; for if she belonged to 
the camp, she would most probably approach it from the 
plantation, and might be overtaken before she could cross the 
moor to reach it. 

They had lain ensconced in the firs for about half an hour, 
when suddenly, without any warning. Wagtail rushed into the 
underwood and vanished. They listened with all their ears, 
and in a few moments heard his joyous bark, followed instantly 
however by a howl of pain; and before they had got many 
yards in pursuit, he came cowering to my father’s feet, who, 
patting his side, found it bleeding. He bound his handker¬ 
chief round him, and fastening the lash of Sim’s whip to his 
collar that he might not go too fast for them, told him to find 
Theodora. Instantly he pulled away through the brushwood, 
giving a little yelp nOw and then as the stiif remnant of some 
broken twig or stem hurt his wounded side. 

Before we reached the spot for which he was making, how¬ 
ever, my father heard a rustling, nearer to the outskirts of the 
wood, and the same moment Wagtail turned and tugged 
fiercely in that direction. The figure of a woman rose up 
against the sky, and began to run for the open space beyond. 
Wagtail and my father pursued at speed, my father crying out 
that if she did not stop, he would loose the dog on her. She 
paid no heed but ran on. 

“ Mount and head her, Sim. Mount, Burton. Ride over 
everything ! ” cried my father, as he slipped Wagtail, who shot 
through the underwood like a bird, just as she reached the 
trench, and in an instant had her by the gown. My father 
saw something gleam in the moonlight, and again a howl broke 
from Wagtail, who was evidently once more wounded. But 
he held on. And now the horsemen having crossed the trench, 
were approaching her in front, and my father was hard upon 
her behind. She gave a peculiar cry, half a shriek, and half a 
howl, clasped the child to .her bosom, and stood rooted like a 


64 The Vicar's Daughter. 

' 

tree, evidently in the hope that her friends, healing her signal, 
would come to her rescue. But it was too late. My father 
rushed upon her the instant she cried out. The dog was hold¬ 
ing her by the poor ragged skirt, and the horses were reined 
snorting on the bank above her. She heaved up the child 
over her head, but whether in appeal to heaven, or about to 
dash her to the earth in the rage of frustration, she was not 
allowed time to show; for my father caught both her uplifted 
arms with his, so that she could not lower them, and Burton, 
having flung himself from his horse and come behind her, 
easily took Theodora from them, for from their position they 
were almost powerless. Then my father called off Wagtail, 
and the poor creature sank down in the bottom of the trench 
amongst the young firs without a sound, and there lay. My 
father went up to her, but she only stared at him with big 
blank black eyes, and such a lost look on her young, handsome, 
yet gaunt face, as almost convinced him she was the mother of 
the child. But whatever might be her rights, she could not 
be allowed to recover possession, without those who had saved 
and tended the child having a word in the matter of her fate. 

As he was thinking what he could say to her, Sim’s voice 
reached his ear. 

“They’re coming over the brow, sir—five or six from the 
camp. We’d better be off.” 

“ The child is safe,” he said, as he turned to leave her. 

From Pie” she rejoined, in a pitiful tone; and this am¬ 
biguous utterance was all that fell from her. 

My father mounted hurriedly, took the child from Burton, 
and rode away, followed by the two men and Wagtail. Through 
the green rides they galloped in the moonlight, and were soon 
beyond all danger of pursuit. When they slackened pace, my 
father instructed Sim to find out all he could about the gipsies 
—if possible to learn their names anc to what tribe or com¬ 
munity they belonged. Sim promised to do what was in his 
power, but said he did net expect much success. 

The children had listened to the stcry wide awake. Wagtail 


65 


A Stupid Chapter, 

\vas lying at my father’s feet, licking his wounds, which were 
not very serious, and had stopped bleeding. 

It’s all your doing. Wagtail,” said Harry, patting the dog. 
“I think he deserves to be called Mr. Wagtail,” said 
Charley. 

And from that day he was no more called bare Wagtail, but 
Mr. Wagtail—much to the amusement of visitors, who, hearing 
the name gravely uttered, as it soon came to be, saw the owner 
of it approach on all fours, with a tireless pendulum in his 
rear. 


CHAPTER XL 

A STUPID CHAPTER. 

Before proceeding with my own story, I must mention that 
my father took every means in his power to find out some¬ 
thing about the woman and the gang of gipsies to which she 
appeared to belong. I believe he had no definite end in view 
further than the desire to be able at some future time to entei 
into such relations with her, for her own and her daughter’s sake 
—if indeed Theodora were her daughter—as might be possi¬ 
ble. But the very next day, he found that they had already 
vanished from the place; and all the inquiries he set on foot, 
by means of friends and through the country constabulary, 
were of no avail. I believe he was dissatisfied with himself in 
what had occurred, thinking he ought to have laid himself 
out at the time to discover whether she was indeed the mother, 
and, in that case, to do for her what he could. Probably, 
had he done so, he would only have heaped difficulty upon 
difficulty; but as it was, if he was saved from trouble, he was 
not delivered from uneasiness. Clearly, however, the child 
must not be exposed to th s danger of the repetition of the 
attempt; and the whole he isehold was now so fully alive to 

F 


6b 


The Vicaf^s Daughter, ^ 

the necessity of not losing sight of her for a momont, that hei 
danger was far less than it had been at any time before. 

I continued at the Hall for six weeks, during which my 
husband came several times to see me; and at the close of that 
period took me back with him to my dear little home. The 
rooms, all but the study, looked very small after those I had left; 
but I felt notwithstanding that the place was my home. 1 was at 
first a little ashamed of the feeling; for why should I be any¬ 
where more at home than in the house of such parents as 
mine ? But I presume there is a certain amount of the queenly 
element in every woman, so that she cannot feel perfectly at 
ease without something to govern—however small, and how¬ 
ever troublesome her queendom may be. At my father’s, I 
had every ministration possible, and all comforts in profusion ; 
but I had no responsibilities, and no rule; so that sometimes 
I could not help feeling as if I was idle, although I knew I 
was not to blame. Besides, I could not be at all sure that my 
big bear was properly attended to; and the knowledge that he 
was the most independent of comforts of all the men I had 
ever come into any relation with, made me only feel the more 
anxious that he should not be left to his own neglect. For, 
although my father, for instance, was ready to part with any¬ 
thing, even to a favourite volume, if the good reason of another’s 
need showed itself, he was not at all indifferent in his own 
person to being comfortable. One with his intense power of 
enjoying the gentleness of the universe could not be so. 
Hence it was always easy to make him a little present, whereas 
I have still to rack my brains for weeks before my bear’s 
birthday comes round, to think of something that will in itself 
have a chance of giving him pleasure. Of course it would be 
comparatively easy if I had plenty of money to spare, and 
hadn’t “ to mu Idle it all away ” in paying butchers and bakers, 
and such like people. 

So home I went, to be queen again. Friends came to see 
me, but I returned few of their calls. I like best to sit in my 
bedroom. 1 would Imve preferred sitting in my wonderful 



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A Stupid Chapter, 67 

little room off the study, and I tried that first; but the same 
morning somebody called on Percivale, and straightway I felt 
myself a prisoner. The moment I heard the strange voice 
through the door, I wanted to get out, and could not, of 
course. Such a risk I would not run again. And when Per¬ 
civale asked me the next day if I would not go down with 
him, I told him I could not bear the feeling of confinement it 
gave me. 

“ I did mean,” he said, “ to have had a door made into the 
garden for you; and I consulted an architect friend on the 
subject; but he soon satisfied me it would make the room 
much too cold for you, and so I was compelled to give up the 
thought.” 

“ You dear ! ” I said. That was all, but it was enough for 
Percivale, who nevei bothered me, as I have heard of husbands 
doing, for demonstrations either of gratitude or affection. 
Such must be of the mole-eyed sort, who can only read large 
print. So I betook myself to my chamber, and there sat and 
worked—for I did a good deal of needlework now, although I 
had never been fond of it as a girl. The constant recurrence 
of similar motions of the fingers, one stitch just the same as 
another in countless repetition, varied only by the bother when 
the thread grew short and would slip out of the eye of the 
needle, and yet not short enough to be exchanged with still 
more bother for one too long, had been so wearisome to me 
in former days, that I spent half my pocket-money in getting 
the needlework done for me which my mother and sister did 
for themselves. For this my father praised me, and my 
mother tried to scold me and couldn’t. But now it was all so 
different! Instead of toiling at plain stitching and hemming 
and sewing, 1 seemed to be working a bit of lovely tapestry all 
the time—so many thoughts and so many pictures went weav¬ 
ing themselves into the work; while every little bit finished 
appeared so much of the labour of the universe actually done 
—accomplished, ended: for the first time in my life, I beg9n 
to feel myself of conocquence enough to be taken care of. I 

F 2 


68 


The Vicar's Datighter, 

remember once laying down the little—what I was working at 
—but I am growing too communicative and important. 

My father used often to say that the commonest things in the 
world were the loveliest—sky and water and grass and such; now 
I found that the commonest feelings of humanity—for what 
feelings could be commoner than those which now made me 
blessed amongst women ?—are those that are fullest of the 
divine. Surely this looks as if there were a God of the whole 
earth—as if the world existed in the very foundations of its 
history and continuance by the immediate thought of a causing 
thought. For, simply because the life of the world was mov¬ 
ing on towards its unseen goal, and I knew it, and had a help¬ 
less share in it, I felt as if God was with me. I do not say I 
always felt like this—far from it; there were times when life 
itself seemed vanishing in an abyss of nothingness, when all my 
consciousness consisted in this—that I knew I was 7wt^ and 
when I could not believe that I should ever be restored to the 
well-being of existence. The worst of it was that, in such 
moods, it seemed as if I had hitherto been deluding myself 
with rainbow fancies as often as I had been aware of blessed¬ 
ness, as if there was in fact no wine of life apart from its effer¬ 
vescence. But when one day I told Percivale—not while I 
was thus oppressed, for then I could not speak, but in a 
happier moment whose happiness I mistrusted—something of 
what I felt, he said one thing which has comforted me ever 
since in such circumstances: 

“ Don’t grumble at the poverty, darling, by which another is 
made rich.” 

I confess I did not see all at once what he meant, but I did 
after thinking over it for a while. And if I have learned any 
valuable lesson in my life, it is this, that no one’s feelings are 
a measure of eternal facts. 

The winter passed slowly away—fog, rain, frost, snow, thaw, 
succeeding one another in all the seeming disorder of the 
season. A good many things happened, I believe; but I don’t 
remember any of them. My mother wrote offering me Doia 


A Stupid Chapter. 69 

for a companion, but somehow I preferred being without her. 
One great comfort was good news about Connie, who was 
getting on famously. But even this moved me so little that I 
began to think I was turning into a crab, utterly encased in 
the shell of my own selfishness. The thought made me cry. 
'Fhe fact that I could cry consoled me, for how could I be 
heartless so long as I could cry ? But then came the thought 
it was for myself, my own hard-heartedncss I was crying—not 
certainly for joy that Connie was getting better. “At least, 
however,” I said to myself, “ I am not content to be *elfish. 
I am a little troubled that I am not good.” And then I tried 
to look up, and got my needlework, which always did me good 
by helping me to reflect. It is, I can’t help thinking, a great 
pity that needlework is going so much out of fashion, for it 
tends more to make a woman—one who thinks, that is— 
acquainted with herself than all the sermons she is ever likely 
to hear. 

My father came to see me several times, and was all himself 
to me; but I could not feel quite comfortable with him—I 
don’t in the least know why. I am afraid, much afraid, it 
indicates something very wrong in me somewhere. But he 
seemed to understand me ; and always, the moment he left 
me, the tide of confidence began to flow afresh in the ocean 
that lay about the little island of my troubles. Then I knew 
he was my own father—something that even my ^husband 
could not be, and would not wish to be to me. 

In the month of March my mother came to see me, and 
that was all pleasure. My father did not always see when I 
was not able to listen to him, though he was most considerate 
when he did; but my mother —why, to be with her was like 
being with one’s own— mother.^ I was actually going to write. 
There is nothing better than that when a woman is in such 
trouble, except it be—what my father knows more about than 
I do : I wish I did know all about it. 

She brought with her a young woman to take the place of 
cook, or rather general servant, in our little household. She 


70 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

had been kitchen-maid in a small family of my mother’s 
acquaintance, and had a good character for honesty and plain 
cooking. Percivale’s more experienced ear soon discovered 
that she was Irish. This fact had not been represented to my 
mother, for the girl had been in England from childhood, and 
her mistress seemed either not have known it, or not to have 
thought of mentioning it. Certainly my mother was far too 
just to have allowed it to influence her choice, notwithstanding 
the prejudices against Irishwomen in English families—preju¬ 
dices not without a general foundation in reason. For my 
part, I should have been perfectly satisfied with my mother’s 
choice, even if I had not been so indifferent at the time to all 
that was going on in the lower regions of the house. But 
while my mother was there, I knew well enough that nothing 
could go wrong, and my housekeeping mind had never been 
so much at ease since we were married. It was very delight¬ 
ful not to be accountable; and for the present I felt exonerated 
from all responsibilities. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AN INTRODUCTION. 

I WOKE one morning after a sound sleep—not so sound 
however but that I had been dreaming, and that when I awoke 
I could recall my dream. It was a very odd one. I thought 
I was a hen strutting about amongst ricks of corn, picking 
here and scratching there, followed by a whole brood of 
chickens, towards which I felt exceedingly benevolent and 
attentive. Suddenly I heard the scream of a hawk in the air 
above me, and instantly gave the proper cry to fetch the little 
creatures under my wings. They came scurrying to me as fast 
as their legs could carry them—all but one, which wouldn’t 
ipind my cry, although 1 kept repeating it again and again 


An hitroduction. 


71 


Meantime the hawk kept screaming, and I felt as if I didn’t 
care for any of those that were safe under my wings, but only 
for the solitary creature that kept pecking away as if nothing 
was the matter. About it I grew so terribly anxious that at 
length I woke with a cry of misery and terror. 

The moment I opened my eyes there was my mother, stand¬ 
ing beside me. The room was so dark that I thought for a 
moment what a fog there must be; but the next I forgot every¬ 
thing at hearing a little cry, which I verily believe in my stupid 
dream I had taken for the voice of the hawk, whereas it was 
the cry of my first and only chicken, which I had not yet 
seen, but which my mother now held in her grandmotherly 
arms, ready to hand her to me. I dared not speak, for I 
felt very weak, and was afraid of crying from delight. I 
looked in my mother’s face, and she folded back the clothes, 
and laid the baby down beside me, with its little head resting 
on my arm. 

“ Draw back the curtain a little bit, mother dear,” I whis¬ 
pered, “ and let me see what it is like.” 

I believe I said it, for I was not quite a mother yet. My 
mother did as I requested ; a ray of clear spring light fell upon 
the face of the little white thing by my side—for white she was, 
though most babies are red—and if I dared not speak before, I 
couldn’t now. My mother went away again, and sat down by 
the fireside, leaving me with my baby. Never shall I forget the 
unutterable content of that hour. It was not gladness, nor was 
it thankfulness that filled my heart, but a certain absolute con¬ 
tentment—just on the point, but for my want of strength, of 
blossoming into unspeakable gladness and thankfulness. Some¬ 
how too there was mingled with it a sense of dignity, as if I had 
vindicated for myself a right to a part in the creation, for was I 
not proved at least a link in the marvellous chain of existence, 
in carrying on the designs of the great Maker? Not that the 
thought was there—only the feeling which afterwards found the 
thought in order to account for its own being. Besides, the state 
of perfect repose after what had passed was in itself bliss; the 


^2 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

very sense of weakness was delightful, for I had earned the right 
to be weak, to rest as much as I pleased, to be important and 
to be congratulated. 

Somehow I had got through. The trouble lay behind me; 
and here, for the sake of any who will read my poor words, 
I record the conviction, that, in one way or other, special 
individual help is given to every creature to endure to the 
end. I think I have heard my father say, and hitherto it has 
been my own experience, that always when suffering, whether 
mental or bodily, approached the point where further endurance 
appeared impossible, the pulse of it began to ebb, and a lull 
ensued. I do not venture to found any general assertion upon 
this : I only state it as a fact of my own experience. He who 
does not allow any man to be tempted above that he is able 
to bear, doubtless acts in the same way in all kinds of trials. 

I was listening to the gentle talk about me in the darkened 
room—not listening, indeed, only aware that loving words were 
spoke^i. Whether I was dozing I do not know, but something 
touched my lips. I did not start. I had been dreadfully given 
to starting for a long time—so much so that I was quite 
ashamed sometimes, for I would even cry out—I who had 
always been so sharp on feminine affectations before; but 
now it seemed as if nothing could startle me. I only opened 
my eyes—and there was my great big huge bear looking 
down on me with something in his eyes I had never seen 
there before. But even his presence could not ripple the waters 
of my deep rest. I gave him half a smile—I knew it was but 
half a smile, but I thought it would do—closed my eyes, and 
sank again—not into sleep, but into that same blessed repose. 
I remember wondering if I should feel anything like that for the 
first hour or two after I was dead. May there not one day be 
such a repose for all—only the heavenly counterpart, coming of 
perfect activity instead of weary success ? 

This was but the beginning of endlessly varied pleasures. I 
dare say the mothers would let me go on for a good while in this 
direction; perhaps even some of the fathers could stand a 


An Introduction, 


73 

little more of it; but I must remember that if anybody reads 
this at all, it will have multitudes of readers in whom the 
chord which could alone respond to such experiences hangs 
loose over the sounding-board of their being. 

By slow degrees the daylight, the light of work, that is, began 
to penetrate me, or rather to rise in my being from its own 
hidden sun. First I began to wash and dress my baby myself. 
One who has not tried that kind of amusement cannot know 
what endless pleasure it affords. I do not doubt that to the 
paternal spectator it appears monotonous, unproductive, unpro¬ 
gressive ; but then, he looking upon it from the outside, and 
regarding the process with a speculative compassion, and not 
with sympathy, cannot know the communion into which it 
brings you with the baby. I remember w^ell enough what my 
father has written about it in the Seaboard Parish; but he is all 
wrong—I mean him to confess that before this is printed: if 
things were done as he proposes, the tenderness of mothers 
would be far less developed, and the moral training of children 
would be postponed to an indefinite period. There, papa ! 
there’s something in your own style! 

Next I began to order the dinners; and the very day on 
which I first ordered the dinner, I took my place at the head 
of the table. A happier little party—well, of course, I saw it all 
through the rose-mists of my motherhood, but I am neverthe¬ 
less bold to assert that my husband was happy, and that my 
mother was happy; and if there was one more guest at the table 
concerning whom I am not prepared to assert that he was 
hapjjy, I can confidently affirm that he was merry, and gracious, 
and talkative, originating three parts of the laughter of the 
evening. To watch him with the baby was a pleasure even to 
the heart of a mother, anxious as she must be when any one, 
especially a gentleman, more especially a bachelor, and most 
especially a young bachelor, takes her precious little wax-doll in 
his arms, and pretends to know all about the management of 
such. It was he indeed who introduced her to the dining-room; 
fgr, leaving the table during desert, he returned bearing her in 


74 The Vicar's Daughter, 

his arms, to my astonishment, and even mild maternal indigna¬ 
tion at the liberty. Resuming his seat, and pouring out for his 
charge, as he pretended, a glass of old port, he said in the 
soberest voice:— 

“ Charles Percivale, with all the solemnity suitable to the 
occasion, I, the old moon with the new moon in my arms, pro¬ 
pose the health of Miss Percivale on her first visit to this boring 
bullet of a world. By the way, what a mercy it is that she 
carries her atmosphere with her ! ” 

Here I, stupidly thinking he reflected on the atmosphere 
of baby, rose to take her from him with suppressed indigna 
tion—for why should a man who assumes a baby unbidden, 
be so very much nicer than a woman who accepts her as 
given, and makes the best of it ? But he declined giving her 
up. 

“I’m not pinching her,” he said. 

“No; but I am afraid you find her disagreeable.” 

“ On the contrary, she is the nicest of little ladies ; for she 
lets you talk all the nonsense you like, and never takes the 
least offence.” 

I sat down again directly. 

“ I propose her health,” he repeated, “ coupled with that of 
her mother, to whom I, for one, am more obliged than I can 
explain—for at length convincing me that I belong no more to 
the youth of my country, but am an uncle with a homuncle in 
his arms.” 

“ Wifie, your health ! Baby, yours too 1 ” said my husband ; 
and the ladies drank the toast in silence. 

It is time I explained who this fourth—or should I say fifth? 
—person in our family party was. He was the younger brother 
of my Percivale, by name Roger—still more unsuccessful than 
he ; of similar trustworthiness but less equanimity, for he was 
subject to sudden elevations and depressions of the inner 
barometer. I shall have mere to tell about him by-and-by. 
Meantime it is enough to mention that my daughter—how 
grand I thought it when I first said my daughter I —novt 


A Negatived Proposal. 75 

her acquaintance with him. Before long he was her chief 
favourite next to her mother and—I am sorry I cannot con¬ 
scientiously add father; for, at a certain early period of her 
history, the child showed a decided preference for her uncle 
over her father. 

But it is time I put a stop to this ooze of maternal memories. 
Having thus introduced my baby and her uncle Roger, I close 
the chapter. 


CHAPTER XHI. 

A NEGATIVED PROPOSAL. 

It may well be believed that we had not yet. seen much com¬ 
pany in our little house. To parties my husband had a great 
dislike; evening parties he eschewed utterly, and never ac¬ 
cepted an invitation to dinner, except it were to the house of 
a friend, or to that of one of my few relatives in London, whom, 
for my sake, he would not displease. There were not many 
even among his artist-acquaintances whom he cared to visit, 
and, altogether, I fear he passed for an unsociable man. I 
am certain he would have sold more pictures if he had accepted 
what invitations came in his way. But to hint at such a thing 
would, I knew, crystallize his dislike into a resolve. 

One day after I had got quite strong again, as I was sitting 
by him in the study with my baby on my knee, I proposed 
that we should ask some friends to dinner. Instead of object¬ 
ing to the procedure upon general principles, which I confess 
I had half anticipated, he only asked me whom I thought of 
inviting. When I mentioned the Morleys, he made no reply, 
but went on with his painting as if he had not heard me, 
whence I knew of course that the proposal was disagreeable to 
him. 

« You see we have been twice to dine with them,” I said. 


y 6 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

’•'* Well, don’t you think that enough for a while? ** 

“ I’m talking of asking them here now.” 

** Couldn’t you go and see your cousin some morning in¬ 
stead?” 

“ It’s not that I want to see my cousin particularly. I want 
to ask them to dinner.” 

‘‘ Oh! ” he said, as if he couldn’t in the least make out what 
I was after, “ I thought people asked people because they 
desired their company.” 

“ But, you see, we owe them a dinner.” 

“ Owe them a dinner ! Did you borrow one then ? ” 

** Percivale, why will you pretend to be so stupid ? ” 

“ Perhaps I’m only pretending to be the other thing.” 

“ Do you consider yourself under no obligation to people 
who ask you to dinner ? ” 

None in the least—if I accept the invitation. That is the 
natural acknowledgment of their kindness. Surely my com¬ 
pany is worth my dinner. It is far more trouble to me to put 
on black clothes and a white choker and go to their house, 
than it is for them to ask me, or, in a house like theirs, to 
have the necessary preparations made for receiving me in a 
manner befitting their dignity. I do violence to my own feel¬ 
ings in going—is not that enough ? You know how much I 
prefer a chop with my wife alone to the grandest dinner the 
grandest of her grand relations could give me.” 

“ Now, don’t you make game of my grand relations. I’m 
not sure that you haven’t far grander relations yourself, only 
you say so little about them, they might all have been trans¬ 
ported for housebreaking. Tell me honestly, don’t you think 
it natural if a friend asks you to dinner that you should ask 
him again ? ” 

‘‘ Yes; if it would give him any pleasure. But just imagine 
your cousin Morley dining at our table. Do you think he 
would enjoy it ? ” 

“Of course we must have somebody in tc help Jemima.” 

** And somebody to wait, I suppose ? ” 


77 


A Negatived ProposaL 

“ Yes, of course, Percivale.” 

“ And what Thackeray calls cold balls handed about 

“ Well, I wouldn’t have them cold.” 

“ But they would be.” 

I was by this time so nearly crying, that I said nothing here. 

“ My love,” he resumed, “ I object to the whole thing. It’s 
all false together. I have not the least disinclination to asking 
a few friends who would enjoy being received in the same style 
as your father or my brother—namely, to one of our better 
dinners, and perhaps something better to drink than I can 
afford every day; but just think with what uneasy compassion 
Mr. Morley would regard our poor ambitions—even if you had 
an occasional cook and an undertaker’s man. And what would 
he do without his glass of dry sherry after his soup, and his 
hock and champagne later, not to mention his fine claret or 
tawny port afterwards ? I don’t know how to get these things 
good enough for him, without laying in a stock, and that you 
know would be as absurd as it is impossible.” 

“ Oh, you gentlemen always think so much of the wine I ” 

“ Believe me, it is as necessary to Mr. Morley’s comfort as 
the dainties you would provide him with. Indeed it would be 
a cruelty to ask him. He would not, could not enjoy it.” 

“ If he didn’t like it, he needn’t come again,” I said, cross 
with the objections of which I could not but see the justice. 

“ Well, I must say you have an odd notion of hospitality,” 
said my bear.—“You may be certain,” he resumed after a 
moment’s pause, “ that a man so well aware of his own im¬ 
portance, will take it far more as a compliment that you do 
not presume to invite him to your house, but are content to 
enjoy his society when he asks you to his.” 

“ I don’t choose to take such an inferior position,” I said. 

“ You can’t help it, my dear,” he returned. “ Socially con¬ 
sidered, you are his inferior. You cannot give dinners he 
would regard with anything better than a friendly contempt, 
combined with a certain mild indignation at your having pre¬ 
sumed to ask used to such different ways. It is far more 


fS The Vicat^s Daughter, 

graceful to accept the small fact and let him have his whim, 
which is not a subversive one, or at all dangerous to the com¬ 
munity—^being of a sort easy to cure. Ha ! ha ! ha! ” 

“ May I ask what you are laughing at ? ” I said with 
severity. 

“ I was only fancying how such a man must feel—if what 
your blessed father believes be true—when he is stripped all 
at once of every possible source of consequence—stripped of 
position, funds, house, including cellar—clothes, body, including 
stomach—” 

“ There, there! don’t be vulgar. It is not like you, Perci- 
vale.” 

“ My love, there is far greater vulgarity in refusing to ac¬ 
knowledge the inevitable, either in society or in physiology. 
Just ask my brother his experience in regard of the word to 
which you object.” 

“ I will leave that to you.” 

‘‘ Don’t be vexed with me, my wife,” he said. 

** I don’t like not to be allowed to pay my debts.” 

“ Back to the starting-point, like a hunted hare ! A woman’s 
way,” he said merrily, hoping to make me laugh, for he could 
not doubt I should see the absurdity of my position with a 
moment’s reflection. But I was out of temper, and chose to 
pounce upon the liberty taken with my sex, and regard it as 
an insult Without a word I rose, pressed my baby to my 
bosom as if her mother had been left a widow, and swept away. 
Percivale started to his feet; I did not see, but I knew he 
gazed after me for a moment; then I heard him sit down to 
his painting as if nothing had happened, but, I knew, with a 
sharp pain inside his great chest For me, I found the preci¬ 
pice, or Jacob’s ladder, I had to climb, very subversive of my 
dignity; for when a woman has to hold a baby in one arm, 
and with the hand of the other lift the front of her skirt in 
order to walk up an almost perpendicular staircase, it is quite 
impossible for her to sweep any more. 

When I reached the top—I don’t know how it was, but the 


79 


My First Dinner-Party, 

picture he had made of me, with the sunset-shine coming 
through the window, flashed upon my memory. All dignity 
forgotten, I bolted through the door at the top, flung my baby 
into the arms of her nurse, turned, almost tumbled headlong 
down the precipice, and altogether tumbled down at my hus¬ 
band’s chair. I couldn’t speak, I could only lay my head on 
his knees. 

“ Darling,” he said, “ you shall ask the great Pan Jan with 
his button atop, if you like. I’ll do my best for him.” 

Between crying and laughing, I nearly did what I have never 
really done yet—I nearly went off. There ! I am sure that 
phrase is quite as objectionable as the word I wrote a little 
while ago, and there it shall stand, as a penance for having 
called any word my husband used vulgar. 

I was very naughty, Percivale,” I said. “ I will give a 
dinner-party, and it shall be such as you shall enjoy, and I 
won’t ask Mr. Morley.” 

“ Thank you, my love,” he said ; “ and the next time Mr. 
Morley asks us I will go without a grumble, and make myself 
as agreeable as I can.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

MY FIRST DINNER-PARTY 

It may have seemed to some of my readers occasion for sur¬ 
prise that the mistress of a household should have got so far in 
the construction of a book without saying a word about her 
own or other people’s servants—without even a remark on 
servants in general. Such occasion shall no longer be afforded 
them, for now I am going to say several things about one of 
mine, and thereby introduce a few results of much experience 
and some tho ight. I do not pretend to have made a single 


86 


The Vicar^s Daughter, 

discovery—but only to have achieved what I count a certain 
measure of success, which, however, I owe largely to my own 
poverty, and the stupidity of my cook. 

I have had a good many servants since, but Jemima seems 
a fixture. How this has come about, it would be impossible to 
say in ever so many words. Over and over I have felt, and 
may feel again before the day is ended, a profound sympathy 
with Sinbad the sailor, when the old man of the sea was on 
his back, and the hope of ever getting him off it had not yet 
begun to dawn. She has by turns every fault under the sun— 
I say fault only—will struggle with one for a day, and succumb 
to it for a month; while the smallest amount of praise is sufficient 
to render her incapable of deserving a word of commendation 
for a week. She is intensely stupid, with a remarkable genius 
—yes, genius—for cooking. My father says that all stupidity 
is caused, or at least maintained, by conceit. I cannot quite 
accompany him to his conclusions, but I have seen plainly 
enough that the stupidest people are the most conceited, which 
in some degree favours them. It was long an impossibility to 
make her see, or at least own, that she was to blame for any¬ 
thing. If the dish she had last time cooked to perfection made 
its appearance the next time uneatable, she would lay it all to 
the silly oven, was too hot or too cold; or the silly pepper-pot, 
the top of which fell off as she was using it. She had no sense 
of the value of proportion—would insist for instance that she 
had made the cake precisely as she had been told, but suddenly 
betray that she had not weighed the flour, which could be of 
no consequence, seeing she had weighed everything else. 

“Please, *m, could you eat your dinner now, for it’s all 
ready ? ” she came saying an hour before dinner-time, the very 
first day after my mother left. Even now her desire to be 
punctual is chiefly evidenced by absurd precipitancy, to the 
danger of doing everything either to a pulp or a cinder. Yet 
here she is, and here she is likely to remain, as far as I see, 
till death, or some other catastrophe, us do part. The reason 
of it is, that, with all her faults—and they are innumerable—she 


8 i 


My First Dinner-Party. 

has some heart; yes, after deducting all that can oe laid to the 
account of a certain cunning perception that she is well off, she 
has yet a good deal of genuine attachment left; and after 
setting down the half of her professions to the blarney which is 
the natural weapon of the weak-witted Celt, there seems yet 
left in her of the vanishing clan instinct enough to render her 
a jealous partisan of her master and mistress. 

Those who care only for being well-served, will of course 
feel contemptous towards any one who would put up with such 
a woman for a single moment after she could find another; but 
both I and my husband have a strong preference for living in 
a family, rather than in a hotel. I know many houses in which 
the master and mistress are far more like the lodgers on suffer¬ 
ance of their own servants. I have seen a worthy lady go 
about wringing her hands because she could not get her orders 
attended to in the emergency of a slight accident, not daring 
to go down to her own kitchen, as her love prompted, and 
expedite the ministration. I am at least mistress in my own 
house ; my servants are, if not yet so much members of the 
family as I could wish, gradually becoming more so; there is a 
circulation of common life through the household, rendering us 
an oiganization, although as yet perhaps a low one; I am sure 
of being obeyed, and there are no underhand out-of-door con¬ 
nexions. When I go to the houses of my rich relations, and 
hear what they say concerning their servants, I feel as if they 
were living over a mine, which might any day be sprung, and 
blow them into a state of utter helplessness; and I return to 
my house blessed in the knowledge that my little kingdom is my 
own, and that, although it is not free from internal upheavings 
and stormy commotions, these are such as to be within the 
control and restraint of the general family influences; while the 
blunders of the cook seem such trifles beside the evil customs 
established in most kitchens of which I know anything, that 
they are turned even into sources of congratulation as securing 
her services for ourselves. More than once my husband has 
insisted on raising her wages on the ground of the endless good 


82 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

he gets in his painting from the merriment her oddities aff> 'rd 
him —namely, the clear insight, which, he asserts, is the in¬ 
variable consequence. I must in honesty say, however, that I 
have seen him something else than merry with her behaviour 
many a time. 

But I find the things I have to say so crowd upon me, that 
I must either proceed to arrange them under heads—which 
would immediately deprive them of any right to a place in my 
story—or keep them till they are naturally swept from the bank 
of my material by the slow wearing of the current of my narra¬ 
tive. I prefer the latter because I think my readers will. 

What with one thing and another, this thing to be done and 
that thing to be avoided, there was nothing more said about 
the dinner-party until my father came to see us in the month 
of July. I was to have paid them a visit before then, but 
things had come in the way of that also, and now my father 
came commissioned by my mother to arrange for my going the 
next month. 

As soon as I had shown him to his little room, I ran down to 
Percivale. 

“ Papa is come,” I said. 

“ I am delighted to hear it,” he answered, laying down his 
palette and brushes. “ Where is he ? ” 

“ Gone up-stairs,” I answered. “ I wouldn’t disturb you till 
he came down again.” 

He answered with that world-wide English phrase, so sugges¬ 
tive of a hopeful disposition—“ All right! ” And with all its 
grumbling, and the tristesse which the French consider its chief 
characteristic, I think my father is right, who says that, more 
than any other nation, England has been, is, and will be, saved 
by hope. Resuming his implements, my husband added: 

I haven’t quite finished my pipe—I will go on till he comes 
down.” 

Although he laid it on his pipe, I knew well enough it was 
just that little bit of paint he wanted to finish, and not the 
residue of tobacco in the black and red bd wL 


83 


My First Dinner-Party, 

** And now we’ll have our dinner-party,” I said. 

I do believe that, for all the nonsense I had talked about 
returning invitations, the real thing at my heart even then was 
an impulse towards hospitable entertainment, and the desire to 
see my husband merry with his friends, under—shall I say it ? 
—the protecting wing of his wife. For, as mother of the family, 
the wife has to mother her husband also, to consider him as her 
first-born, and look out for what will not only give him pleasure 
but be good for him. And I may just add here, that for a long 
time my bear has fully given in to this. 

** And who are you going to ask ? ” he said. “ Mr. and Mrs. 
Morley to begin with, and—” 

“ No, no,” I answered. “ We are going to have a jolly evening 
of it, with nobody present who will make you either anxious or 
annoyed. Mr. Blackstone ”—he wasn’t married then—“ Miss 
Clare, I think—and—” 

“ What do you ask her for ? ” - 

** I won’t if you don’t like her, but—** 

I haven’t had a chance of liking or disliking her yet.** 

“ That is partly why I want to ask her—I am so sure you 
would like her if you knew her.” 

“ Where did you tell me you had met her?” 

** At Cousin Judy’s. I must have one lady to keep me in 
countenance with so many gentlemen, you know. I have 
another reason for asking her, which I would rather you should 
find out than I tell you. Do you mind ? ” 

“ Not in the leasj:, if you don’t think she will spoil the fun.” 

I am sure she won’t. Then there’s your brother Roger.” 

** Of course. Who more ? ” 

“ I think that will do. There will be six of us then—quite a 
large enough party for our little dining-room.” 

‘‘ Why shouldn’t we dine here ? It wouldn’t be so hot, and 
we should have more room.” 

I liked the idea. The night before, Percivale arranged 
everything, so that not only his paintings, of which he had far 
too a any, and which were huddled about the room, but all his 

G J 


84 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

properties as well, should be accessory to a picturesque (ffect. 
And when the table was covered with the glass and plate—of 
which latter my mother had taken care I should not be destitute, 
and adorned with the flowers which Roger brought me from 
Covent Garden, assisted by some of our own, I thought the 
bird’s-eye view from the top of Jacob’s ladder a very pretty one 
indeed. 

Resolved that Percivale should have no cause of complaint 
as regarded the simplicity of my arrangements, I gave orders 
that our little Ethel, who at that time of the evening was always 
asleep, should be laid on the couch in my room off the study, 
with the door ajar, so that Sarah, who was now her nurse, might 
wait with an easy mind. The dinner was brought in by the 
outer door of the study, to avoid the awkwardness and possible 
disaster of the private precipice. 

The principal dish—a small sirloin of beef—was at the 
foot of the table, and a couple of boiled fowls, as I thought, 
before me. But when the cover was removed, to my surprise 
I found they were roasted. 

“ What have you got there, Percivale ? ” I asked. “ Isn’t it 
sirloin? ” 

“ I’m not an adept in such matters,” he replied. “ I should 
say it was.” 

My father gave a glance at the joint. Something seemed to 
be wrong. I rose and went to my husband’s side. Powers of 
cuisine 1 Jemima had roasted the fowls, and boiled the sirloin! 
My exclamation was the signal for an outbreak of laughter, 
led by my father. I was trembling in the balance between 
mortification on my own account and sympathy with the evident 
amusement of my father and Mr. Blackstone. But the thought 
that Mr. Morley might have been and was not of the party, 
came with such a pang and such a relief, that it settled the point, 
and I burst out laughing. 

“ I dare say it’s all right,” said Roger. “ Why shouldn’t a 
sirloin be boiled as well as roasted ? I venture to assert that 
it is all a whim, and we are on the verge of a new discovery to 


My First Dinner-Party, 85 

swell the number of those which already owe their being to 
blunders.” 

“ Let us all try a slice, then,” said Mr. Blackstone, “ and 
compare results.” 

This was agreed to, and a solemn silence followed, during 
which each sought acquaintance with the new dish. 

“lam sorry to say,” remarked my father, speaking first, 
“ that Roger is all wrong, and we have only made the discovery 
that custom is right. It is plain enough why sirloin is always 
roasted.” 

“ I yield myself convinced,” said Roger. 

“ And I am certain,” said Mr. Blackstone, “ that if the loin 
set before the king, whoever he was, had been boiled, he would 
never have knighted it.” 

Thanks to the loin, the last possible touch of constraint had 
vanished, and the party grew a very merry one. The apple¬ 
pudding which followed, was declared perfect, and eaten up. 
Percivale produced some good wine from somewhere, which 
evidently added to the enjoyment of the gentlemen, my father 
included, who likes a good glass of wine as well as anybody. 
But a tiny little whimper called me away, and Miss Clare 
accompanied me, the gentlemen insisting that we should return 
as soon as possible, and bring the homuncle, as Roger called 
the baby, with us. 

When we returned, the two clergymen were in close con¬ 
versation, and the other two gentlemen were chiefly listening. 
My father was saying : 

“ My dear sir, I don^t see how any man can do his duty as a 
clergyman who doesn’t visit his parishioners. 

“ In London it is simply impossible,” returned Mr. Black¬ 
stone. “Besides —in the country you are welcome wherever 
you go; any visit I might pay, would most likely be regarded 
either as an intrusion, or as giving the right to pecuniary aid, 
of which evils the latter is the worse. There are portions of 
every London parish which clergymen and their coadjutors have 
so degraded by the practical teaching of beggary, that they have 


86 The Vicar's Daiightet. 

blocked up eveiy door to a healthy spiritual relation betweer 
them and a possible pastor.” 

“ Would you not give alms at all, then ? ” 

“One thing, at least, I have made up my mind upon—that 
alms from any but the hand of personal friendship tehd to evil, 
and will, in the long run, increase misery.” 

“ What, then, do you suppose the proper relation between a 
London clergyman and his parishioners ? ” 

“ One, I am afraid, which does not at present exist—one 
which it is his first business perhaps to bring about. I confess 
I regard with a repulsion amounting to horror the idea of 
walking into a poor man’s house, except either I have business 
with him, or desire his personal acquaintance.” 

“ But your office—” 

“Makes it my business to serve—not to assume authority 
over them—especially to the degree of forcing service upon 
them. I will not say how far intimacy may not justify you in 
immediate assault upon a man’s conscience; but I shrink from 
any plan that seems to take it for granted that the poor are 
more wicked than the rich. Why don’t we send missionaries 
to Belgravia ? The outside of the cup and platter may some¬ 
times be dirtier than the inside.” 

“ Your missionary could hardly force his way through the 
servants to the boudoir or drawing-room.” 

“ And the poor have no servants to defend them.” 

I have recorded this much of the conversation chiefly for the 
sake of introducing Miss Clare, who now spoke. 

“ Don’t you think, sir,” she asked, addressing my father, “ that 
the help one can give to another must always depend on the 
measure in which one is free oneself? ’ 

My father was silent—thinking. We were all silent. I said 
to myself, “ There, papa! that is something after your own 
heart.” With marked deference and solemnity he answered at 
length— 

“ I have little doubt you aie right. Miss Clare. That puts 
the question upon its own eternal foundation. The mode used 


My First Dinner-Party, 87 

must be of infinitely less importance than the person who uses 
it” 

As he spoke, he looked at her with a far more attentive 
regard than hitherto. Indeed, the eyes of all the company 
seemed to be scanning the small woman; but she bore the 
scrutiny well, if indeed she was not unconscious of it; and my 
husband began to find out one of my reasons for asking her, 
which was simply that he might see her face. At this moment, 
it was in one of its higher phases. It was, at its best, a grand 
face—at its worst, a suffering face; a little too large, perhaps? 
for the small body which it crowned with a flame of soul; but 
while you saw her face you never thought of the rest of her, 
and her attire seemed to court an escape from all observation. 

But,” my father went on, looking at Mr. Blackstone, “ I 
am anxious, from the clergyman’s point of view, to know what 
my friend here thinks he must try to do in his very difficult 
position.” 

“ I think the best thing I could do,” returned Mr. Black- 
stone, laughing, “ would be to go to school to Miss Clare.” 

I shouldn’t wonder,” my father responded. 

“ But, in the meantime, I should prefer the chaplaincy of a 
suburban cemetery.” 

“ Certainly your charge would be a less troublesome one. 
Your congregation would be quiet enough, at least,” said Roger. 

“ ‘ Then are they glad because they be quiet,’ ” said my 
father, as if unconsciously uttering his own reflections. But he 
was a little cunning, and would say things like that when, 
fearful of irreverence, he wanted to turn the current of the con¬ 
versation. 

“ But, surely,” said Miss Clare, “ a more active congregation 
would be quite as desirable.” 

ohe had one fault—no, defect: she was slow to enter into 
the humour of a thing. It seemed almost as if the first aspect 
of any bit of fun presented to her was that of something wrong. 
A moment’s reflection, however, almost always ended in a sunny 
laugh, partly at her own stupidity, as she called it. 


88 


The Vicat’s Daughter. 

‘•You mistake my meaning,” said Mr. Blackstone. “My 
chief, almost sole, attraction to the regions of the grave is the 
sexton, and not the placidity of the inhabitants; though pei • 
haps Miss Clare might value that more highly if she had more 
experience of how noisy human nature can be.” 

Miss Clare gave a little smile, which after-knowledge enabled 
me to interpret as meaning—“ Perhaps I do know a trifle about 
it; ”—but she said nothing. 

“ My first inquiry,” he went on, “ before accepting such an 
appointment, would be as to the character and mental habits 
of the sexton. If I found him a man capable of regarding 
human nature from a stand-point of his own, I should close 
with the offer at once. If, on the contrary, he was a common¬ 
place man, who made faultless responses, and cherished the 
friendship of the undertaker, I should decline. In fact, I should 
regard the sexton as my proposed master; and whether I 
should accept the place or not would depend altogether on 
whether I liked him or not. Think what revelations of human 
nature a real man in such a position could give me. ‘ Hand 
me the shovel. You stop a bit—you’re out of breath. Sit 
down on that stone there, and light your pipe; here’s some 
tobacco. Now tell me the rest of the story. How did the old 
fellow get on after he had buried his termagant wife ? * That’s 
how I should treat him ; and I should get in return such a 
succession of peeps into human life, and intent, and aspira¬ 
tion, as, in the course of a few years, would send me to the 
next vicarage that turned up, a sadder and wiser man, 
Mr. Walton.” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said my father; but whether in sympathy 
with Mr. Blackstone, or in latent disapproval of a tone judged 
unbecoming to a clergyman, I cannot tell. Sometimes, I confess, 
I could not help suspecting the source of the deficiency in 
humour which he often complained of in me ; but I always came 
to the conclusion that what seemed such a deficiency in him 
was only occasioned by the presence of a deeper feeling. 

Miss Clare was the first to leave. 


My First Dinner-Party, 89 

“What a lovely countenance that is ! said my husband, the 
moment she was out of hearing. 

“ She is a very remarkable woman,” said my father. 

“ I suspect she knows a good deal more than most of us,” 
said Mr. Blackstone. “ Did you see how her face lighted up 
always before she said anything? You can never come nearer 
to seeing a thought than in her face just before she speaks.” 

“ What is she ? ” asked Roger. 

“ Can’t you see what she is ? ” returned his brother. “ She’s 
a saint—Saint Clare.” 

“ If you had been a Scotchman now,” said Roger, “ that 
fine name would have sunk to Sinkler in your mouth.” 

“ Not a more vulgar corruption, however, than is common 
in the mouths of English lords and ladies, when they turn 
St John into Singen, reminding one of nothing but the French 
for an ape,” said my father. 

“ But what does she do ? ” persisted Roger. 

“ Why should you think she does anything ? ” I asked. 

“ She looks as if she had to earn her own living ” 

“ She does. She teaches music.” 

“ Why didn’t you ask her to play ? ” 

“ Because this is the first time she has been to the house.” 

“ Does she go to church, do you suppose ? ” 

“ I have no doubt of it; but why do you ask ? ” 

“ Because she looks as if she didn’t want it. I never sqm 
such an angelic expression upon a countenance.” 

“ You must take me to call upon her,” said my father. 

“ I will with pleasure,” I answered. 

I found, however, that this was easier promised than per¬ 
formed, for I had asked her by word of mouth at Cousin Judy’s, 
and had not the slightest idea where she lived. Of course I 
applied to Judy, but she had mislaid her address, and promising 
to ask her for it, forgot more than once. My father had to 
return home without seeing her again. 


90 


The Vi car's Daug/Uet. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A PICTURE. 

Things went on very quietly for some tir.e. Of course I was 
fully occupied, as well I might be, with a life to tend and 
cultivate which must blossom at length into the human flowers 
of love and obedience and faith. The smallest service I did 
the wonderful thing that lay in my lap, seemed a something in 
itself so well worth doing, that it was worth living to do it. As 
I gazed on the new creation, so far beyond my understanding, 
yet so dependent upon me while asserting an absolute and 
divine right to all I did for her, I marvelled that God should 
entrust me with such a charge, that he did not keep the lovely 
creature in his own arms and refuse her to any others. Then I 
would bethink myself that in giving her into mine, he had not 
sent her out of his own; for I, too, was a child in his arms, 
holding and tending my live doll, until it should grow something 
like me, only ever so much better. Was she not given to me 
that she might learn what I had begun to learn—namely, that 
a willing childhood was the flower of life? How can any 
mother sit with her child on her lap and not know that there 
is a God over all—know it by the rising of her own heart in 
prayer to him ? But so few have had parents like mine ! If 
my mother felt thus when I lay in her arms, it was no wonder 
I should feel thus when my child lay in mine. 

Before I had children of my own, I did not care about 
children, and therefore did not understand them; but I had 
read somewhere—and it clung to me although I did not 
understand it—that it was in laying hold of the heart of his 
mother that Jesus laid his first hold on the world to redeem 
it; and now at length I began to understand it. What a 
divine way of saving us it was—to let her bear him, carry him 
in her bosom, wash him and dress him and nurse him and 
sing him to sleep— offer him the adoration of mother’s love, 


A Picture, 


9 ^ 

misunderstand him, chide him, forgive him even for fancied 
wrong! Such a love might well save a world in which were 
mothers enough. It was as if he had said, “ Ye shall no more 
offer vain sacrifices to one who needs them not, and cannot 
use them. I will need them, so require them at your hands. 
I will hunger and thirst and be naked and cold, and ye shall 
minister to me. Sacrifice shall be no more a symbol but a 
real giving unto God; and when I return to the Father, inas 
much as ye do it to one of the least of these, ye do it unto 
me.’* So all the world is henceforth the temple of God \ its 
worship is ministration; the commonest service is divine service. 

I feared at first that the new strange love I felt in my heart 
came only of the fact that the child was Percivale’s and mine \ 
but I soon found it had a far deeper source—that it sprang from 
the very humanity of the infant woman, yea, from her relation 
in virtue of that humanity to the Father of all. The fountain 
appeared in my heart; it arose from an infinite store in the 
unseen. 

Soon, however, came jealousy of my love for my baby. I 
feared lest it should make me—nay, was making me neglect 
my husband. The fear first arose in me one morning as I sat 
with her half dressed on my knees. I was dawdling over he? 
in my fondness, as I used to dawdle over the dressing of my 
doll, when suddenly I became aware that never once since her 
arrival had I sat with my husband in his study. A pang of 
dismay shot through me. “ Is this to be a wife ? ” I said to 
myself;—“ To play with a live love like a dead doll, and for¬ 
get her husband r* I caught up a blanket from the cradle— 
I am not going to throw away that good old word for the ugly 
outlandish name they gave it now, reminding one only of a 
helmet—I caught up a blanket from the cradle, I say, wrapped 
it round the treasure, which was shooting its arms and legs in 
every direction like a polypus feeling after its food—and rushed 
down-stairs, and down the precipice into the study. Percivale 
started up in terror, thinking something fearful had happened, 
and I was bringing him all that was left of the child. 


92 


The Vicat^s Daughter. 

“What—what—whafs the matter?” he gasped. 

I could not while he was thus frightened explain to him 
what had driven me to him in such alarming haste. 

“ IVe brought you the baby to kiss,” I said, unfolding the 
blanket and holding up the sprawling little goddess towards the 
face that towered above me. 

“ Was it dying for a kiss then? ” he said, taking her, blanket 
and all, from my arms. 

The end of the blanket swept across his easel, and smeared 
the face of the baby in a picture of the Three Kings^ at which 
he was working. 

“Oh, Percivale!” I cried, “youVe smeared your baby 1” 

“ But this is a real live baby; she may smear anything she 
likes.” 

“ Except her own face and hands, please, then, Percivale.” 

“ Or her blessed frock,” said Percivale. “ She hasn’t got one, 
though. Why hasn’t the little angel got her feathers on yet ? ” 

“ I was in such a hurry to bring her.” 

“To be kissed?” 

“No, not exactly. It wasn’t her I was in a hurry to bring; 
it was myself.” 

“ Ah ! you wanted to be kissed, did you ? ” 

“ No, sir. I didn’t want to be kissed ; but I did so want to 
kiss you, Percivale.” 

“ Isn’t it all the same, though, darling ? ” he said. “ It 
seems so to me.” 

“ Sometimes, Percivale, you are so very stupid! It’s not 
the same at all. There’s a world of difference between the 
two; and you ought to know it, or be told it, if you don’t.” 

“ I shall think it over as soon as you leave me,” he said. 

“ But I’m not going to leave you for a long time. I haven’t 
seen you paint for weeks and weeks—not since this little 
troublesome thing came poking in between us.” 

“ But she’s not dressed yet.” 

“ That doesn’t signify. She’s well wrapped up, and quite 
warm.” 


A Picture, 


93 

He put me a chair where I could see his picture without 
catching the shine of the paint. I took the baby from him, 
and he went on with his work. 

** You don’t think I’m going to sacrifice all my privileges to 
this little tyrant—do you ? ” I said. 

“ It would be rather hard for me, at least,” he rejoined. 

“ You did think I was neglecting you, then, Percivale ? ” 

“ Not for a moment.” 

“ Then you didn’t miss me ? ” 

“I did—very much.” 

“ And you didn’t grumble ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Do I disturb you ? ” I asked, after a little pause. “ Can 
you paint just as well when I am here as when you are alone ?” 

“ Better. I feel warmer to my work somehow.” 

I was satisfied, and held my peace. When I am best 
pleased I don’t want to talk. But Percivale, perhaps not 
having found this out yet, looked anxiously in my face ; and, 
as at the moment my eyes were fixed on his picture, I thought 
he wanted to find out whether I liked the design. 

“ I see it now ! ” I cried. “ I could not make out where 
the Magi were.” 

He had taken for the scene of his picture an old farm 
kitchen, or yeoman’s hall, with its rich brown rafters, its fire 
on the hearth, and its red brick-floor. A tub half full of 
bright water stood on one side, and the mother was bending 
over her baby, which, undressed for the bath, she was holding 
out for the admiration of the Magi. Immediately behind the 
mother stood, in the garb of a shepherd, my father, leaning on 
the ordinary shepherd’s crook; my mother, like a peasant- 
woman in her Sunday-best, with a white handkerchief crossed 
upon her bosom, stood beside him, and both were gazing with 
a chastened yet profound pleasure on the lovely child. 

In front stood two boys and a girl—between the ages of five 
and nine—gazing each with a peculiar wondering delight on 
the baby. The youngest boy, with a great spotted wooden 


94 


The Vicar\^ Daughter, 

horse in his hand, was approaching to embrace the infant in 
such fashion as made the toy look dangerous, and the left hand 
of the mother was lifted with a motion of warning and defence. 
The little girl, the next youngest, had, in her absorption, 
dropped her gaudily dressed doll at her feet, and stood suck¬ 
ing her thumb, her big blue eyes wide with contemplation. 
The eldest boy had brought his white rabbit to give the baby, 
but had forgotten all about it, so full was his heart of his new 
brother. An expression of mingled love and wonder and 
perplexity had already begun to dawn upon the face, but it 
was as yet far from finished. He stood behind the other two, 
peeping over their heads. 

“ Were you thinking of that Titian in the Louvre, with the 
white rabbit in it ? ” I asked Percivale. 

“ I did not think of it until after I had put in the rabbit,” he 
replied. “ And it shall remain, for it suits my purpose, and 
Titian would not claim all the white rabbits because of that one.” 

“ Did you think of the black lamb in it, then, when you 
laid that black pussy on the hearth ? ” I asked. 

“ Black lamb ? ” he returned. 

“ Yes,” I insisted, “ a black lamb, in the dark background — 
such a very black lamb, and in such a dark background, that 
it seems you never discovered it.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” he persisted. 

“ Absolutely certain,” 1 replied. “ I pointed it out to papa 
in the picture itself in the Louvre: he had not observed it 
before either.” 

“ I am very glad to know there is such a thing there. I 
need not answer your question, you see. It is odd enough I 
should have put in the black puss. Upon some grounds I 
might argue that my puss is better than Titian’s lamb.” 

“ What grounds—tell me.” 

“ If the painter wanted a contrast, a lamb, be he as black as 
ever paint could make him, must still be a more Christian 
animal than a cat as white as snow. Under what pretence 
could a cat be used for a Christian symbol ? ” 


Rumours* 


95 


** What do you make of her playfulnesr?” 

“I should count that a virtue, were it not for the fatal 
objection that it is always exercised at the expense of other 
creatures.** 

“ A ball of string, or a reel, or a bit of paper, is enough for 
an uncorrupted kitten.” 

“ But you must not forget that it serves only in virtue of the 
creature*s imagination representing it as alive. If you do not 
make it move, she will herself set it in motion as the initiative 
of the game. If she cannot do that, she will take no notice 
of it. 

“ Yes, I see. I give in.” 

All this time he had been painting diligently. He could 
now combine talking and painting far better than he used. 
But a knock came to the study door, and remembering baby’s 
unpresentable condition, I huddled her up, climbed the stair 
again, and finished the fledging of my little angel in a very 
happy frame of mind. 


CHAPTER XVL 

RUMOURS. 

Hardly was it completed, when Cousin Judy called, and I 
went down to see her, carrying my baby with me. As I 
went, something put me in mind that I must ask her for Miss 
Clare’s address. Lest I should again forget, as soon as she 
had kissed and admired the baby, I said— 

“ Have you found out yet where Miss Clare lives, Judy ? ” 

“ I don’t choose to find out,” she answered. “ I am sorry 
to say I have had to give her up. It is a disappointment, 
I confess.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” I said. “ I thought you considered 
her a very good teacher.” 


96 


The Vicat^s Daughter. 

“ I have no fault to find with her on that score. She was 
always punctual, and I must allow both played well and 
taught the children delightfully. But I have heard such ques¬ 
tionable things about her 1—very strange things indeed I 

“ What are they ? ” 

" I can't say I’ve been able to fix on more than one thing 
directly against her character, but—” 

“ Against her character! ” I exclaimed. 

“ Yes, indeed. She lives by herself in lodgings, and the house 
is not at all a respectable one.” 

“ But have you made no further inquiry ? ” 

“ I consider that quite enough. I had already met more 
than one person, however, who seemed to think it very odd 
that I should have her to teach music in my family.” 

“ Did they give any reason for thinking her unfit ? ” 

“ I did not choose to ask them. One was Miss Clarke—^you 
know her. She smiled in her usual supercilious manner, but in 
her case I believe it was only because Miss Clare looks so 
dowdy. Nobody knows anything about her, though, except 
what I’ve just told you.” 

“ And who told you that ? ” 

** Mrs. Jeffreson.” 

“ But you once told me she was a great gossip.” 

“ Else she wouldn’t have heard it But that doesn’t make it 
untrue. In fact, she convinced me of its truth, for she knows 
the place she lives in, and assured me it was at great risk of in¬ 
fection to the children that I allowed her to enter the house ; 
and so, of course, I felt compelled to let her know that I 
didn’t require her services any longer.” 

“ There must be some mistake, surely! ” I said. 

Oh 1 no—not the least—I am sorry to say.” 

“ How did she take it ? ” 

“Very sweetly indeed. She didn’t even ask me why, which 
was just as well, seeing I should have found it awkward to tell 
her. But I suppose she knew too many grounds herself to dare 
the question.” 


Rumours, 


9; 

I was dreadfully sorry, but I could not say much more then. 
I ventured only to express my conviction that there could not 
be any charge to bring against Miss Clare herself; for that one 
who looked and spoke as she did, could have nothing to be 
ashamed of. Judy however insisted that what she had heard 
was reason enough for at least ending the engagement; indeed, 
that no one was fit for such a situation of whom such things 
could be said, whether they were true or not. 

When she left me, I gave baby to her nurse, and went 
straight to the study, peeping in to see if Percivale was alone. 

He caught sight of me, and called to me to come down. 

“ It’s only Roger,” he said. 

I was always pleased to see Roger. He was a strange crea¬ 
ture-one of those gifted men who are capable of anything, if not 
of everything, and yet carry nothing within sight of profi¬ 
ciency. He whistled like a starling, and accompanied his 
whistling on the piano, but never played. He could also do 
a little on the violin, and during the first few months after 
ray marriage, I often accompanied him. He could copy a 
drawing to a hair’s-breadth, but never drew. He could engrave 
well on wood, but although he had often been employed in 
that way, he had always got tired of it after a few weeks. He 
was for ever wanting to do something other than what he was 
at; and the moment he got tired of a thing, he would work 
at it no longer; for he had never learned to make himself. 
He would come every day to the study for a week to paint 
in backgrounds, or make a duplicate; and then, perhaps, we 
wouldn’t see him for a fortnight. At other times he would 
work, say for a month, modelling, or carving marble, for a 
sculptor friend, from whom he might have had constant employ¬ 
ment if he had pleased. He had given lessons in various 
branches, for he was an excellent scholar, and had the finest 
ear for verse, as well as the keenest appreciation of the love¬ 
liness of poetry, that I have ever known. He had stuck to this 
longer than to anything else, strange to say; for one would have 
thought it the least attractive of employments to one of his vola^ 

H 


98 The Vicat^s Daughter* 

tile disposition. For some time indeed he had supported him¬ 
self comfortably in this way; for through friends of his family 
he had had good introductions, and, although he wasted a good 
deal of money in buying nick-nacks that promised to be useful 
and seldom were, he had no objectionable habits except in¬ 
ordinate smoking. But it happened that a pupil—a girl of 
imaginative disposition, I presume—fell so much in love with 
him that she betrayed her feelings to her countess-mother, and 
the lessons were of course put an end to. I suspect he did not 
escape heart-whole himself, for he immediately dropped all his 
other lessons, and took to writing poetry for a new magazine, 
which proved of ephemeral constitution, and vanished after a 
few months of hectic existence. 

It was remarkable that with such instability his moral nature 
should continue uncorrupted; but this I believe he owed chiefly 
to his love and admiration of his brother. For my part, I 
could not help liking him much. There was a half-plaintive 
playfulness about him, alternated with gloom, and occasionally 
with wild merriment, which made him interesting even when 
one felt most inclined to quarrel with him. The worst of him 
was that he considered himself a generally misunderstood, if not 
ill-used man, who could not only distinguish himself, but render 
valuable service to society, if only society would do him the 
justice to give him a chance. Were it only, however, for his love 
to my baby, I could not but be ready to take up his defence. 

When I mentioned what I had just heard about Miss Clare, 
Percivale looked both astonished and troubled; but before he 
could speak, Roger, with the air of a man of the world whom 
experience enabled to come at once to a decision, said— 

“ Depend upon it, Wynnie, there is falsehood there some¬ 
where. You will always be nearer the truth if you believe 
nothing, than if you believe the half of what you hear.” 

That’s very much what papa says,” I answered. “ He affirms 
that he never searched into an injurious report in his own 
parish without finding it so nearly false as to deprive it of all 
right to go about.” 


Rumours, 


99 

“ Besides,” said Roger, ** look at that face I How I should 
like to model it! She’s a good woman that, depend upon it I ” 

I was delighted with his enthusiasm. 

** I wish you would ask her again, as soon as you can,” said 
Percivale, who always tended to embody his conclusions in acts 
rather than in words. “ Your cousin Judy is a jolly good crea¬ 
ture, but from your father’s description of her as a girl, she must 
have grown a good deal more worldly since her marriage* 
Respectability is an awful snare.” 

“ Yes,” said Roger; “ one ought to be very thankful to be a 
Bohemian and have nothing expected of him, for respectability 
is a most fruitful mother of stupidity and injustice.” 

I could not help thinking that he might, however, have a 
little more and be none the worse. 

“ I should be very glad to do as you desire, husband,” I said, 
“ but how can I ? I haven’t yet learned where she lives. It 
was asking Judy for her address once more that brought it all 
out. I certainly didn’t insist, as I might have done, notwith¬ 
standing what she told me; but if she didn’t remember it 
before, you may be sure she could not have given it me then.” 

“ It’s very odd,” said Roger, stroking his long moustache, 
the sole ornament of the kind he wore.—“ It’s very odd,” he 
repeated thoughtfully, and then paused again. 

“ What’s so very odd, Roger ? ” asked Percivale. 

“The other evening,” answered Roger, after yet a short 
pause, “ happening to be in Tottenham Court Road, I 
walked for some distance behind a young woman carrying 
a brown beer-jug in her hand—for I sometimes amuse my¬ 
self in the street by walking persistently behind some one, 
devising the unseen face in my mind, until the recognition 
of the same step following causes the person to look round 
at me, and give me the opportunity of comparing the two— 
I mean the one I had devised and the real one. When the 
young woman at length turned her head, it was only my 
astonishment that kept me from addressing her as Miss Clare. 
My surprise however gave me time to see how absurd it would 

H 2 


L.ofC. 


lOO The Vicat^s Daughter, 

have been. Presently she turned down a yard and dis« 
appeared.” 

“ Don’t tell my cousin Judy,” I said. ‘‘She would believe 
it 7vas Miss Clare.” 

“ There isn’t much danger,” he returned. “ Even if I knew 
your cousin, I should not be likely to mention such an incident 
in her hearing.” 

“ Could it have been she ? ” said Percivale thoughtfully. 

“ Absurd,' ’ said Roger. “ Miss Clare is a lady, wherever she 
may live.” 

“ I don’t know,” said his brother, still thoughtfully; “ who 
can tell ? It mightn’t have been beer she was carrying.” 

“ I didn’t say it was beer,” returned Roger. “ I only said it 
was a beer-jug—one of those brown, squat, stone jugs—the 
best for beer that I know, after all—brown, you know, with a 
dash of grey.” 

“ Brown jug or not, I wish I could get a few sittings from 
her. She would make a lovely St. Cecilia,” said my husband. 

“ Brown jug and all? ” asked Roger. 

“ If only she were a little taller,” I objected. 

“ And had an aureole,” said my husband. “ But I might 
succeed in omitting the jug as well as in adding the aureole and 
another half foot of stature, if only I could get that lovely coun 
tenance on the canvas—so full of life and yet of repose.” 

“ Don’t you think it a little hard ? ” I ventured to say. 

“ I think so,” said Roger. 

“ I don’t,” said my husband. “ I know what in it looks like 
hardness; but I think it comes of the repression of feeling.” 

“You have studied her well for your opportunities,” I said. 

“ I have; and I am sure, whatever Mrs. Morley may say, 
that, if there be any truth at all in those reports, there is 
some satisfactory explanation of whatever has given rise to 
them. I wish we knew anybody else that knew her. Do try 
to find some one that does, Wynnie.” 

“I don’t know how to set about it,” 1 said. “I should 
be only too glad.” 


Rumours. 


lOI 


" I will try,” said Roger. " Does she sing ? ” 

“ I have heard Judy say she sang divinely; but the only 
occasion on which I met her—at their house, that time you 
couldn’t go, Percivale—she was never asked to sing.” 

“ I suspect,” remarked Roger, “ it will turn out to be only 
that she’s something of a Bohemian like ourselves.” 

“ Thank you, Roger; but for my part I don’t consider my¬ 
self a Bohemian at all,” I said. 

“ I am afraid you must rank with your husband, wifie,” said 
mine, as the wives of the working people of London often call 
their husbands. 

“ Then you do count yourself a Bohemian: pray what signi¬ 
ficance do you attach to the epithet ? ” I asked. 

“ I don’t know, except it signifies our resemblance to the 
gipsies,” he answered. 

“ I don’t understand you quite.” 

“ I believe the gipsies used to be considered Bohemians,” in¬ 
terposed Roger, “ though they are doubtless of Indian origin. 
Their usages being quite different from those amongst which 
they live, the name Bohemian came to be applied to painters, 
musicians, and such like generally, to whom, save by cour¬ 
tesy, no position has yet been accorded by society—so called.” 

“ But why have they not yet vindicated for themselves a 
social position—and that a high one? ” I asked. 

“ Because they are generally poor, I suppose,” he answered \ 
“ and society is generally stupid.” 

“ May it not be because they are so often, like the gipsies, 
lawless in their behaviour, as well as peculiar in their habits?” 
I suggested. 

“ I understand you, perfectly, Mrs. Percivale,” rejoined 
Roger, with mock offence. “But how would that apply to 
Charlie?” 

“ Not so well as to you, I confess,” I answered. “ But there 
is ground for it with him too.” 

“ I have thought it all over many a time,” said Percivale, 
“and I suppose it comes in part from inability to under 


103 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

stand the worth of our calling, and in part from the difficulty 
of knowing where to put us.’^ 

“ I suspect,” 1 said, “ one thing is that so many of them 
are content to be received as painters merely, or whatever 
they may be by profession. Many, for instance, you have told 
me, accept invitations which do not include their wives.” 

** They often go to parties, of course, where there are no 
ladies,” said Roger. 

“ That is not what I mean,” I replied. “ They go to dinner¬ 
parties where there are ladies, and evening parties, too, without 
their wives.” 

“ Whoever does that,” said Percivale, “ has at least no right 
to complain that he is regarded as a Bohemian ; for in accept¬ 
ing such invitations, he accepts insult, and himself insults his 
wife.” 

Nothing irritated my bear so much as to be asked to dinner 
without me. He would not even offer the shadow of a reason 
for declining the invitation. “ For,” he would say, if I give 
the real reason, namely, that I do not choose to go where my 
wife is excluded, they will set it down to her jealous ambition of 
entering a sphere beyond her reach; I will not give a false 
reason, and indeed have no objection to their seeing that I am 
offended; therefore, I assign none. If they have any chivalry 
in them, they may find out my reason readily enough.” 

I don’t think I ever displeased him so much as once when 1 
entreated him to accept an invitation to dine with the Earl of 
H-. The fact was, I had been fancying it my duty to per¬ 

suade him to get over his offence at the omission of my name, 
for the sake of the advantage it would be to him in his profes¬ 
sion. I laid it before him as gently and coaxingly as I could, 
representing how expenses increased, and how the children 
would be requiring education by-and-by—reminding him that 
the reputation of more than one of the most popular painters 
had been brought about in some measure by their social 
qualities and the friendships they made. 

“ Is it likely your children will be ladies and gentlemen,” he 


Rumours. 103 

said, " if you prevail on their father to play the part of a sneak¬ 
ing parasite ? ” 

I was frightened. He had never spoken to me in such a 
tone, but I saw too well how deeply he was hurt to take offence 
at his roughness. I could only beg him to forgive me, and pro¬ 
mise never to say such a word again, assuring him that I be¬ 
lieved as strongly as himself that the best heritage of children 
was their father’s honour. 

Free from any such clogs as the possession of a wife en¬ 
cumbers a husband withal, Roger could of course accept what 
invitations his connexion with an old and honourable family 
procured him. One evening he came in late from a dinner at 
Lady Bernard’s. 

“Whom do you think I took down to dinner?*' he asked, 
almost before he was seated. 

“ Lady Bernard ? ” I said, flying high. 

“ Her dowager aunt? ” said Percivale. 

“ No, no—Miss Clare.’* 

“ Miss Clare ! ” we both repeated, with mingled question and 
exclamation. 

“ Yes, Miss Clare—incredible as it may appear,” he answered. 

“ Did you ask her if it was she you saw carrying the jug of 
beer in Tottenham Court Road ? ” said Percivale. 

“ Did you ask her address ? ” I said. “ That is a question 
more worthy of an answer.” 

“ Yes, I did. I believe I did. I think I did.” 

“ What is it, then ? ” 

“ Upon my word, I haven’t the slightest idea.” 

“ So, Mr. Roger ! You have had a perfect opportunity, and 
have let it slip ! You are a man to be trusted indeed ! ” 

“I don’t know how it could have been. I distinctly re¬ 
member approaching the subject more than once or twice; 
ind now first I discover that I never asked the que‘ition. Or if 
I did, I am certain I got no answer.” 

“ Bewitched.” 

“ Yes—I suppose so.** 


104 Vicar^s Daughter. 

Or,” suggested Percivale, ‘‘she did not choose to tell you— 
saw the question coining, and led you away from it—never let 
you ask it.” 

“ I have heard that ladies can keep one from saying what they 
don’t want to hear. But she shan’t escape me so a second time.*' 

“ Indeed, you don’t deserve another chance,” I said. 
“ You’re not half so clever as I took you to be, Roger.” 

“ When I think of it, though—it wasn’t a question so easy 
to ask, or one you would like to be overheard asking.” 

“ Clearly bewitched,” I said. “ But for that I forgive you. 
Did she sing ? ” 

“No. I don’t suppose any one there ever thought of asking 
such a dingy-feathered bird to sing.” 

“ You had some music ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. Pretty good, and very bad. Miss Clare’s forehead 
was crossed by no end of flickering shadows as she listened.” 

“ It wasn’t for want of interest in her you forgot to find out 
where she lived ! You had better take care, Master Roger.” 

“ Take care of what ? ” 

“ Why, you don’t know her address.” 

“ What has that to do with taking care ? ” 

“That you won’t know where to find your heart if you 
should happen to want it.” 

“ Oh ! I’m past that kind of thing long ago. You’ve made 
an uncle of me.” 

And so on, with a good deal more nonsense, but no news of 
Miss Clare’s retreat 

I had before this remarked to my husband that it was odd 
she had never called since dining with us; but he made 
little of it, saying that people who gained their own livelihood 
ought to be excused from attending to rules which had their 
origin with another class; and I had thought no more about it, 
save in disappointment that she had not given me that oppor¬ 
tunity of improving my acquaintance with her. 


A Discovery, 


105 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A DISCOVERY. 

One Saturday night, my husband happening to be out, an 
event of rare occurrence, Roger called ; and as there were some 
things I had not been able to get during the day, I asked him 
to go with me to Tottenham Court Road. It was not far from 
the region where we lived, and I did a great part of my small 
shopping there. The early closing had, if I remember rightly, 
begun to show itself—anyhow several of the shops were shut, 
and we walked a long way down the street, looking for some 
place likely to supply what I required. 

“ It was just here I came up with the girl and the brown 
jug,” said Roger, as we reached the large dissenting chapel. 

“ That adventure seems to have taken a great hold of you, 
Roger,” I said. 

“ She was so like Miss Clare ! ” he returned. “ I can’t get 
the one face clear of the other. When I met her at Lady 
Bernard’s, the first thing I thought of was the brown jug.” 

“ Were you as much pleased with her conversation as at our 
house ? ” I asked. 

“ Even more,” he answered. I found her ideas of art so 
wide, as w^ell as just and accurate, that I was puzzled to think 
where she had had opportunity of developing them. I ques¬ 
tioned her about it, and found she was in the habit of going, 
as often as she could spare time, to the National Gallery, where 
her custom was, she said, not to pass from picture to picture, 
but keep to one until it formed itself in her mind—that is the 
expression she used—explaining herself to mean—until she 
seemed to know what the painter had set himself to do, and 
why this was and that was which she could not at first under¬ 
stand. Clearly, without ever having taken a pencil in her hand 
she has educated herself to a keen perception of what is de¬ 
manded of a true picture. Of course the root of it lies in he/ 


lo6 The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

musical development There,” he cried suddenly, as we came 
opposite a paved passage, “ that is the place I saw her go 
down.” 

“Then you do think the girl with the beer-jug was Miss 
Clare after all ? ” 

“ l^ot in the least. I told you I could not separate them 
in my mind.” 

“ Well, I must say, it seems odd. A girl like that and Miss 
Clare I Why, as often as you speak of the one, you seem to 
think of the other.” 

“ In fact,” he returned, “ I am, as I say, unable to dissociate 
them. But if you had seen the girl, ^ou would not wonder. 
The likeness was absolutely complete.” 

“ I believe you do consider them one and the same; and 
I’m more than half inclined to think so myself, remembering 
what Judy said.” 

“ Isn’t it possible some one who knew Miss Clare, may have 
seen this girl, and been misled by the likeness?” 

“ But where, then, does Miss Clare live ? “ Nobody seems 

to know.” 

“You have never asked any one but Mrs. Morley.” 

“ You have yourself, however, given me reason to think she 
avoids the subject. If she did live anywhere hereabout, she 
would have some cause to avoid it.” 

I had stopped to look down the passage. 

“ Suppose,” said Roger, “ some one were to come past now 
and see Mrs. Percivale, the wife of the celebrated painter, 
standing in Tottenham Court Road, beside the swing-door of a 
corner public-house, talking to a young man—” 

“ Yes \ it might give occasion for scandal,” I said. “ To 
avoid it, let us go down the court and see what it is 
like.” 

It’s not a fit place for you to go into.” 

“ If it were in my father’s parish, I should have known 
everybody in it.” 

You haven’t the slightest idea what you are saying.” 


A Discovery, 107 

" Come anyhow, and let us see what the p'iace is like," 1 
insisted. 

Without another word, he gave me his arm, and down the 
court we went, past the flaring gin-shop, and into the gloom 
beyond. It was one of those places of which while the general 
effect remains vivid in one’s mind, the salient points are so 
few that it is difficult to say much by way of description. The 
houses had once been occupied by people in better circum¬ 
stances than its present inhabitants, and indeed they looked 
all decent enough until turning two right angles we came upon 
another sort. They were still as large, and had plenty of win¬ 
dows, but in the light of a single lamp at the corner, they looked 
very dirty and wretched and dreary. A little shop, with dried 
herrings and bull’s-eyes in the window, was lighted by a tallow 
candle set in a ginger-beer bottle, with a card of “ Kinahan’s 
LL Whisky ” for a reflector. 

“ They can’t have many customers to the extent of a bottle,’* 
said Roger. “ But no doubt they have some privileges from the 
public-house at the corner for hanging up the card.” 

The houses had sunk areas, just wide enough for a stair, 
and the basements seemed full of tenants. There was a little 
wind blowing, so that the atmosphere was tolerable, notwith¬ 
standing a few stray leaves of cabbage, suggestive of others in 
a more objectionable condition not far off. 

A confused noise of loud voices, calling and scolding, hither¬ 
to drowned by the tumult of the street, now reached our ears. 
The place took one turn more, and then the origin of it became 
apparent. At the further end of the passage was another lamp, 
the light of which shone upon a ^roup of men and women, in 
altercation, which had not yet come to blows. It might, in¬ 
cluding children, have numbered twenty, of which some seemed 
drunk and all more or less excited. Roger turned to go back 
the moment he caught sight of them, but I felt inclined, I 
hardly knew why, to linger a little. Should any danger offer, 
it would be easy to gain the open thoroughfare. 

“ It’s not at all a fit place for a lady,” he said. 


io8 The Vicai^s Daughter. 

“ Certainly not,” I answered; “ it hardly seems a fit place 
for human beings. These are human beings, though. Let us 
go through it.” 

He still hesitated; but as I went on, he could but follow 
me. I wanted to see what the attracting centre of the little 
crowd was; and that it must be occupied with some affair of 
more than ordinary interest, I judged from the fact that a good 
many super-terrestrial spectators looked down from the win¬ 
dows at various elevations upon the disputants, whose voices 
now and then lulled for a moment only to break out in fresh 
objurgation and dispute. 

Drawing a little nearer, a slight parting of the crowd revealed 
its core to us. It was a little woman, without bonnet or shawl, 
whose back was towards us. She turned from side to side, 
now talking to one, and now to another of the surrounding 
circle. At first I thought she was setting forth her grievances, 
in the hope of sympathy, or perhaps of justice; but I soon 
perceived that her motions were too calm for that. Some¬ 
times the crowd would speak all together, sometimes keep silent 
for a full minute while she went on talking. When she turned 
her face towards us, Roger and I turned ours, and stared at 
each other. The face was disfigured by a swollen eye, evi¬ 
dently from a blow; but clearly enough, if it was not Miss 
Clare, it was the young woman of the beer-jug. Neither of us 
spoke, but turned once more to watch the result of what seemed 
to have at length settled down into an almost amicable con¬ 
ference. 

After a few more grumbles and protestations, the group 
began to break up into threes and fours. These the young 
woman seemed to set herself to break up again. Here, how¬ 
ever, an ill-looking fellow like a costermonger, with a broken 
nose, came up to us, and, with a strong Irish accent and offen¬ 
sive manner, but still with a touch of Irish breeding, requested 
to know what our business was. Roger asked if the place 
wasn’t a thoroughfare. 

* Not for the likes o’ you,” he answered, “ as comes pryin' 


A Discovery, 109 

after the likes of us. We manage our own affairs down here— 
we do. You’d better be off, my lady.’^ 

I have my doubts what sort of reply Roger might have re¬ 
turned if he had been alone, but he certainly spoke in a very 
conciliatory manner, which, however, the man did not seem to 
appreciate, for he called it blarney; but the young woman, 
catching sight of our little group, and supposing, I presume, 
that it also required dispersion, approached us. She had come 
within a yard of us, when suddenly her face brightened, and 
she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise,— 

“ Mrs. Percivale ! You here !” 

It was indeed Miss Clare. Without the least embarrassment, 
she held out her hand to me, but I am afraid I did not take it 
very cordially. Roger, however, behaved to her as if they 
stood in a drawing-room, and this brought me to a sense of 
propriety. 

“ I don’t look very respectable, I fear,” she said, putting her 
hand over her eye. “ The fact is, I have had a blow, and it 
will look worse to-morrow. Were you coming to find 
me?” 

I forget what lame answer either of us gave. 

“ Will you come in ? ” she said. 

On the spur of the moment, I declined. For all my fine 
talk to Roger, I shrunk from the idea of entering one of those 
houses. I can only say, in excuse, that my whole mind was in 
a condition of bewilderment. 

“ Can I do anything for you, then ? ” she asked, in a tone 
slightly marked with disappointment, I thought. 

“Thank you, no,” I answered, hardly knowing what my 
words were. 

“Then good-night,” she said, and, nodding kindly, turned, 
and entered one of the houses. 

We also turned in silence, and walked out of the court 

“ Why didn’t you go with her ? ” said Roger, as soon as we 
were in the street. 

“ I’m sorry I didn’t if you wanted to go, Roger; but—** 


I lO The Vicar’s Daughter* 

" I think you might have gone, seeing I was with you,” he 
said. 

“ I don’t think it would have been at all a proper thing to 
do, without knowing more about her,” I answered, a little hurt 
“ You can’t tell what sort of a place it may be.” 

“ It's a good place wherever she is, or I am much mistaken,” 
he returned. 

“ You may be much mistaken, Roger.” 

“ True. I have been mistaken more than once in my life. 
I am not mistaken this time though.” 

“ I presume you would have gone if I hadn’t been with you?” 

“ Certainly, if she had asked me, which is not very likely.” 

“ And you lay the disappointment of missing a glimpse into 
the sweet privacy of such a home to my charge ? ” 

It was a spiteful speech, and Roger’s silence made me feel 
it was, which, with the rather patronizing opinion I had of 
Roger, I found not a little galling. So I too kept silence, and 
nothing beyond a platitude had passed between us when I found 
myself at my own door, my shopping utterly forgotten, and 
something acid on my mind. 

“ Don’t you mean to come in ? ” I said, for he held out his 
hand at the top of the stairs to bid me good-night. ** My hus¬ 
band will be home soon, if he has not come already. You 
needn’t be bored with my company—you can sit in the study.” 

“ I think I had better not,” he answered. 

“ I am very sorry, Roger, if I was rude to you,” I said; 
“ but how could you wish me to be hand-and-glove with a 
woman who visits people who she is well aware would not think 
of inviting her if they had a notion of her surroundings ? That 
can't be right, I am certain. I protest I feel just as if I had 
been reading an ill-invented story—an unnatural fiction. I 
cannot get these things together in my mind at all, do what I 
will.” 

“ There must be some way of accounting for it,” said Roger. 

“ No doubt,” f returned; “ but who knows what that way 
may be ? ” 


A Discovery, i\i 

“You maybe wrong in supposing that the people at whose 
houses she visits know nothing about her habits.” 

“ Is it at all likely they do, Roger? Do you think it is? I 
know at least that my cousin dispensed with her services as 
soon as she came to the knowledge of certain facts concerning 
these very points.” 

“ Excuse me—certain rumours—very uncertain facts.” 

When you are cross, the slightest play upon words is an offence. 

I knocked at the door in dudgeon, then turned and said,— 

“ My cousin Judy, Mr. Roger—” 

But here I paused, for I had nothing ready. Anger makes 
some people cleverer for the moment, but when I am angry I 
am always stupid. Roger finished the sentence for me. 

“—Your cousin Judy is, you must allow, a very conventional 
woman,” he said. 

“ She is very good-natured anyhow. And what do you say 
to Lady Bernard ? ” 

“ She hasn’t repudiated Miss Clare’s acquaintance, so far as 
I know.” 

‘‘ But, answer me—do you believe Lady Bernard would in¬ 
vite her to meet her friends if she knew all ? ” 

“ Depend upon it, Lady Bernard knows what she is about 
People of her rank can afford to be unconventional.” 

This irritated me yet more, for it implied that I was influenced 
by the conventionality which both he and my husband despised, 
and Sarah opening the door that instant, I stepped in, without 
even saying good-night to him. Before she closed it, however, 
1 heard my husband’s voice, and ran out again to welcome him. 

He and Roger had already met in the little front garden. 
They did not shake hands—they never did—they always met 
as if they had parted only an hour ago. 

“ What were you and my wife quarrelling about, Rodge ? ” 
I heard Percivale ask, and paused on the middle of the stair to 
hear his answer. 

How do you know we were quarrelling ? ” returned Roger 
gloomily. 


112 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

“I heard you from the very end of the street,” said my 
husband. 

“ That’s not so far,” said Roger \ for indeed one house, Tnth, 
I confess, a good space of garden on each side of it, and the 
end of another house finished the street. But notwithstanding 
the shortness of the distance, it stung me to the quick. Here 
had I been regarding, not even with contempt, only with dis¬ 
gust, the quarrel in which Miss Clare was mixed up; and half 
an hour after, my own voice was heard in dispute with my hus¬ 
band’s brother, from the end of the street in which we lived ! 
I felt humiliated, and did not rush down the remaining half of 
the steps to implore my husband’s protection against Roger’s 
crossness. 

“ Too far to hear a wife and a brother though,” returned 
Percivale jocosely. 

“ Go on,” said Roger; “ pray go on. Let dogs delight comes 
next. I beg Mrs. Percivale’s pardon. I will amend the 
quotation : ‘ I.et dogs delight to worry—’ ” 

Cats,” I exclaimed; and rushing down the steps, I kissed 
Roger before I kissed my husband. 

“ I meant—I mean—I was going to say lambsy* said Roger. 

“ Now, Roger, don’t add to your vices flattery and—” 

“ And fibbing,” he subjoined. 

“ I didn’t say so.” 

“You only meant it” 

“ Don’t begin again,” interposed Percivale “ Come in, and 
refer the cause in dispute to me.” 

We did go in, and we did refer the matter to him. By the 
time we had between us told him the facts of the case, however, 
the point in dispute between us appeared to have grown hazy, 
the fact being that neither of us cared to say anything more 
about it. Percivale insisted that there was no question before 
the court At length Roger, turning from me to his brother, 
said,— 

“ It’s not worth mentioning, Charley, but what led to our 
irreconcilable quarrel was this ; I thought Wynnie might have 


Miss Clare. 


113 

accepted Miss Clare's invitation to walk in and pay her a visit; 
and Wynnie thought me, I suppose, too ready to sacrifice her 
dignity to the pleasure of seeing a little more of the object of 
our altercation. There ! ” 

My husband turned to me and said : 

“ Mrs. Percivale, do you accept this as a correct representa¬ 
tion of your difference? " 

“ Well,” I answered, hesitating—“ yes, on the whole. All 
I object to is the word dignityl^ 

“ I retract it,” cried Roger, “and accept any substitute you 
prefer.” 

“ Let it stand,” I returned. “ It will do as well as a better. 
I only wish to say that it was not exactly my dignity—” 

“ No, no y your sense of propriety,” said my husband; and 
then sat silent for a minute or two, pondering like a judge. 
At length he spoke : 

“Wife,” he said, “you might have gone with your brother, 
I think; but I quite understand your disinclination. At the 
same time, a more generous judgment of Miss Clare might 
have prevented any difference of feeling in the matter.” 

“ But,” I said, greatly inclined to cry, “ I only postponed 
my judgment concerning her.” 

And I only postponed my crying, for I was very much 
ashamed of myself 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

MISS CLARE. 

Of course my husband and I talked a good deal more about 
what I ought to have done, and I saw clearly enough that I 
ought to have run any risk there might be in accepting her 
invitation. I had been foolishly taking more care of myself 
than was necessary. I told him I would write to Roger and 
ask him when he could take me there again. 


XI4 The Vicai^s Daughter. 

“ I will tell you a better plan,” he said. ** I will go with you 
myself. And that will get rid of half the awkwardness there 
would be if you went with Roger, after having with him refused 
to go in.” 

“But would that be fair to Roger? She would think I 
didn’t like going with him, and I would go with Roger any¬ 
where. It was I who did not want to go. He did.” 

“ My plan, however, will pave the way for a full explana¬ 
tion—or confession rather, I suppose it will turn out to be. I 
know you are burning to make it—with your mania for con 
fessing your faults.” 

I knew he did not like me the worse for that manta though. 

“ The next time,” he added, “ you can go with Roger, always 
supposing you should feel inclined to continue the acquaint¬ 
ance, and then you will be able to set him right in her eyes.” 

The plan seemed unobjectionable. But just then Percivale 
was very busy, and I being almost as much occupied with my 
baby as he with his, day after day and week after week passed, 
during which our duty to Miss Clare was, I will not say 
either forgotten or neglected, but unfulfilled. 

One afternoon I was surprised by a visit from my father. 
He not unfrequently surprised us. 

“ Why didn’t you let us know, papa?” I said. “ A surprise 
is very nice, but an expectation is much nicer, and lasts so 
much longer.” 

“ I might have disappointed yoiu” 

“ Even if you had, I should have already enjoyed the 
expectation. That would be safe.” 

“ There’s a good deal to be said in excuse of surprises,” he 
rejoined, “ but in the present case, I have a special one to 
offer. I was taken with a sudden desire to see you. It was 
very foolish no doubt, and you are quite right in wishing I 
weren’t here, only going to come to-morrow.” 

“ Don't be so cruel, papa. Scarcely a day passes in which 
/ do not long to see you. My baby makes me think more 
about my home than ever.” 


Miss Clare, 


I15 

“Then she’s a very healthy baby, if one may judge by her 
influences. But you know, if I had to give you warning, I 
could not have been here before to-morrow, and surely you 
will acknowledge that however nice expectation may be, pre¬ 
sence is better.” 

“ Yes, papa. We will make a compromise, if you please. 
Every time you think of coming to me, you must either come at 
once, or let me know you are coming. Do you agree to that ? ” 

“ I agree,” he said. 

So I have the pleasure of a constant expectation. Any day 
he may walk in unheralded; or by any post I may receive a 
letter with the news that he is coming at such a time. 

As we sat at dinner that evening, he asked if we had lately 
seen Miss Clare. 

“ I’ve seen her only once, and Percivale not at all, since 
you were here last, papa,” I answered. 

“ How’s that ? ” he asked again, a little surprised. “ Haven’t 
you got her address yet ? I want very much to know more of 
her.” 

“ So do we. I haven’t got her address, but I know where 
she lives.” 

“What do you mean, Wynnie? Has she taken to dark 
sayings of late, Percivale ? ” 

I told him the whole story of my adventure with Roger, and 
the reports Judy had prejudiced my judgment withal. He 
heard me through in silence, for it was a rule with him never to 
interrupt a narrator. He used to say, “ You will generally get 
at more, and in a better fashion, if you let any narrative take 
its own devious course, without the interruption of requested 
explanations. By the time it is over, you will find the questions 
you wanted to ask mostly vanished.” 

“ Describe the place to me, Wynnie,” he said, when I had 
ended. “ I must go and see her. I have a suspicion amounting 
almost to a conviction that she is one whose acquaintance 
ought to be cultivated at any cost. There is some grand 
explanation of all this contradictory strangeness.” 

1 a 


Ii6 The Vicar's Daughter. 

I don’t think I could describe the place to you so that you 
would find it. But if Percivale wouldn’t mind my going with 
you instead of with him, I should be only too happy to accom¬ 
pany yoa May I, Percivale ? ” 

“ Certainly. It will do just as well to go with your father as 
with me. I only stipulate that, if you are both satisfied, you 
take Roger with you next time.” 

“ Of course I will.” 

** Then we’ll go to-morrow morning,” said my father. 

“ I don’t think she is likely to be at home in the morning,” 
I said. ** She goes out giving lessons, you know; and the 
probability is that at that time we should not find her.” 

“ Then why not to-night ? ” he rejoined. 

“ Why not, if you wish it ? ” 

“ I do wish it, then.” 

“ If you knew the place, though, I think you would prefer 
going a little earlier than we can to-night.” 

“ Ah well, we will go to-morrow evening. We could dine 
early, couldn’t we ? ” 

So it was arranged. My father went about some business in 
the morning. We dined early, and set out about six o’clock 

My father was getting an old man, and if any protection had 
been required, he could not have been half so active as Roger ; 
and yet I felt twice as safe with him. I am satisfied that the 
deepest sense of safety, even in respect of physical dangers, can 
spring only from moral causes; neither do you half so much 
fear evil happening to you, as fear evil happening which ought 
not to happen to you. I believe what made me so courageous 
was the undeveloped fore-feeling that if any evil should over¬ 
take me in my father’s company I should not care; it would 
be all right then, anyhow. The repose was in my father himself, 
and neither in his strength nor his wisdom. The former might 
fail, the latter might mistake; but so long as I was with him in 
what I did, no harm worth counting harm could come to me 
—only such as I should neither lament nor feel. Scarcely a 
shadow of danger, however, showed itselfl 


Miss Clare, 


n; 

It was a cold evening in the middle of November. The 
h'ght, which had been scanty enough all day, had vanished in 
a thin penetrating fog. Round every lamp in the street was a 
coloured halo; the gay shops gleamed like jewel-caverns of 
Aladdin hollowed out of the darkness; and the people that 
hurried or sauntered along looked inscrutable. Where could 
they live ? Had they anybody to love them ? Were their hearts 
quiet under their dingy cloaks and shabby coats ? ” 

“ Yes,” returned my father, to whom I had said something 
to this effect, “ what would not one give for a peep into the 
mysteries of all these worlds that go crowding past us ! If we 
could but see through the opaque husk of them, some would 
glitter and glow like diamond mines; others perhaps would 
look mere earthy holes; some of them forsaken quarries, with 
a great pool of stagnant water in the bottom; some like vast 
coal pits of gloom, into which you dared not carry a lighted 
lamp for fear of explosion. Some would be mere lumber-rooms; 
others ill-arranged libraries, without a poet’s corner anywhere. 
But what a wealth of creation they show, and what infinite room 
for hope it affords! ” 

“ But don’t you think, papa, there may be something of 
worth lying even in the earth pit, or at the bottom of the stag¬ 
nant water in the forsaken quarry ? ” 

“ Indeed I do; though I have met more than one in my 
lifetime concerning whom I felt compelled to say that it wanted 
keener eyes than mine to discover the hidden jewel. But then 
there are keener eyes than mine, for there are more loving 
eyes. Myself I have been able to see good very clearly where 
some could see none; and shall I doubt that God can see 
good where my mole-eyes can see none ? Be sure of this that 
as he is keen-eyed for the evil in his creatures to destroy it, 
he would, if it were possible, be yet keener-eyed for the good 
to nourish and cherish it. If men would only side with the 
good that is in them—will that the seed should grow and bring 
forth fruit 1 ” 


The Vicci9^s Daughter. 


118 


CHAPTER XIX 

MISS Clare’s home. 

We had now arrived at the passage. The gin-shop was flaring 
through the fog. A man in a fustian jacket came out of it and 
walked slowly down before us, with the clay of the brick-field 
clinging to him as high as the leather straps with which his 
trousers were confined, gartervvise, under the knee. The- place 
was quiet. We and the brickmaker seemed the only people in 
it. When we turned the last corner, he was walking in at the 
very door where Miss Clare had disappeared. When I told my 
father that was the house, he called after the man, who came 
out again, and standing on the pavement, waited until we came 

up- 

“ Does Miss Clare live in this house ? ’’ my father asked. 

“ She do,” answered the man curtly. 

‘‘First floor?” 

“ No. Nor yet the second, nor the third. She live nearer 
heaven than ere another in the house ’cep’ myself. I live in 
the attic, and so do she.” 

“ There is a way of living nearer to heaven than that,” said 
my father, laying his hand, * with a right old man’s grace,’ on 
his shoulder. 

“ I dunno, ’cep’ you was to go up in a belloon,” said the 
man, with a twinkle in his eye, which my father took to mean 
that he understood him better than he chose to acknowledge • 
but he did not pursue the figure. 

He was a rough, lumpish young man, with good but dull 
features—only his blue eye was clear. He looked my father 
full in the face, and I thought I saw a dim smile about his 
mouth. 

“You know her, then, I suppose ?” 

“ Everybody in the house knows her. There ain’t many the 
likes o’ her as lives wi’ the likes of us You go right up to 


Miss Claris Honu, 


II 9 

the top. I don’t know if she's in, but a'most any onell be able 
to tell you. I 'ain’t been home yet.” 

My father thanked him, and we entered the bouse, and 
began to ascend. The stair was very much worn and rather 
dirty, and some of the banisters were broken away, but the 
walls were tolerably clean. Half-way up we met a little girl 
with tangled hair and tattered garments, carrying a bottle. 

** Do you know, my dear,” said my father to her, “whether 
Miss Clare is at home ? ” 

“ I dunno,” she answered. “ I dunno who you mean. I 
been mindin’ the baby. He ain’t well. Mother says his head's 
bad. She's a-going up to tell grannie, and see if she can’t do 
suthin’ for him. You better ask mother. Mother 1 ” she called 
out—“ here’s a lady an' a gen’lem'.” 

“You go about yer business, and be back direckly,” cried a 
gruff voice from somewhere above. 

“ That’s mother,” said the child, and ran down the stair. 

When we reached the second floor, there stood a big fat 
woman on the landing, with her face red, and her hair looking 
like that of a doll ill stuck on. She did not speak, but stood 
waiting to see what we wanted. 

“ I’m told Miss Clare lives here,” said my father. “ Can you 
tell me, my good woman, whether she’s at home ? ” 

“ I’m neither good woman nor bad woman,” she returned in 
an insolent tone. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said my father; “ but you see I didn't 
know your name.” 

“ An’ ye don’t know it yet. You’ve no call to know my 
name. I’ll ha’ nothin’ to do wi’ the likes o’ you as goes about 
takin’ poor folk’s childer from ’em. There’s my poor Glory’s 
been an’ took atwixt you an’ grannie, and shet up in a formatory 
as you calls it; an’ I should like to know what right you’ve 
got to go about that way arter poor girls as has mothers to help.” 

“ I assure you I had nothing to do with it,” said my father; 
“I’m a country clergyman myself, and have no duty in 
London.” 


120 


The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

"Well, that’s where they’ve took her—down in the country 
I make no doubt but you’ve had your finger in that pie. You 
don’t come here to call upon us for the pleasure o’ makin’ our 
acquaintance—ha! ha! ha I You’re alius arter somethin' 
troublesome. I’d adwise you, sir and miss, to let well alone. 
Sleepin’ dogs won’t bite, but you’d better let ’em lie—and that 
I tell you.” 

Believe me,” said my father quite quietly, " I haven’t the 
least knowledge of your daughter. The country’s a bigger 
place than you seem to think—far bigger than London itself. 
All I wanted to trouble you about was to tell us whether Miss 
Clare was at home or not.” 

“ I don’t know no one o’ that name. If it’s grannie you 
mean, she’s at home, I know—though it’s not much reason I’ve 
got to care whether she’s at home or not.” 

“ It’s a young—woman, I mean,” said my father. 

"’Tain’t a young lady then ? Well, I don’t care what you 
call her. I daresay it’ll be all one, come the judgment. You’d 
better go up till you can’t go no further, an’ knocks yer head 
agin the tiles, and then you may feel about for a door and 
knock at that, and see if the party as opens it is the party you 
wants.” 

So saying she turned in at a door behind her and shut it. 
But we could hear her still growling and grumbling. 

" It’s very odd,” said my father, with a bewildered smile. 
“ I think we’d better do as she says, and go up till we knock 
our heads against the tiles.” 

We climbed two stairs more—the last very steep, and so 
dark that when we reached the top we found it necessary to 
follow the woman’s directions literally, and feel about for a door. 
But we had not to feel long or far, for there was one close to 
the top of the stair. My father knocked. There was no reply, 
but we heard the sound of a chair, and presently some one 
opened it. The only light being behind her, I could not see 
her face, but the size and shape were those of Miss Clare. 

She did not leave us in doubt, however, for, without a 


Miss Claris Home* 


121 


moment’s hesitation, she held out her hand to me sayings 
“This is kind of you, Mrs. Percivale;” then to my father, 
saying, “ I’m very glad to see you, Mr. Walton. Will you walk 
in?” 

We followed her into the room. It was not very small, for 
it occupied nearly the breadth of the house. On one side, the 
roof sloped so nearly, to the floor that there was not height 
enough to stand erect in. On the other side the sloping part 
was partitioned off—evidently for a bedroom. But what a 
change it was from the lower part of the house ! By the light 
of a single mould candle, I saw that the floor was as clean as 
old boards could be made, and I wondered whether the scrubbed 
them herself. I know now that she did. The two dormer 
windows were hung with white dimity curtains. Back in the 
angle of the roof, between the windows, stood an old bureau. 
There was little more than room between the top of it and the 
ceiling for a little plaster statuette with bound hands and a 
strangely crowned head. A few books on hanging shelves 
were on the opposite side by the door to the other room, and 
the walls, which were whitewashed, were a good deal covered 
with—whether engravings or etchings or lithographs I could not 
then see—none of them framed, only mounted on cardboard. 
There was a fire cheerfully burning in the gable, and opposite 
to that stood a tall old-fashioned cabinet piano, in faded red 
silk. It was open, and on the music-rest lay Handel’s Verdi 
Pi'ati —for I managed to glance at it as we left. A few wooden 
chairs and one very old-fashioned easy-chair, covered with 
striped chintz, from which not glaze only but colour almost had 
disappeared, with an oblong table of deal, completed the 
furniture of the room. She made my father sit down in the 
easy-chair, placed me one in front of the fire, and took another 
at the corner opposite my father. A moment of silence 
followed, which I, having a guilty conscience, felt awk¬ 
ward. But my father never allowed awkwardness to accu- 
rn^ulate. 

“ I had hoped to have been able to call upon you long ago. 


122 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

Miss Clare, but there was some difficulty in finding out where 
you lived.” 

“ You are no longer surprised at that difficulty, I presume** 
she returned with a smile. 

“ But,” said my father, “ if you will allow an old man to 
speak freely—’ 

“ Say what you please, Mr. Walton. I promise to answer 
question you think proper to ask me.” 

** My dear Miss Clare, I had not the slightest intention of 
catechizing you, though, of course, I shall be grateful for what 
confidence you please to put in me. What I meant to say 
might indeed have taken the form of a question, but as such 
could have been intended only for you to answer to yourself— 
whether, namely, it was wise to place yourself at such a dis¬ 
advantage as living in this quarter must be to you.” 

“ If you were acquainted with my history, you would perhaps 
hesitate, Wr. Walton, before you said I placed myself zX such 
disadvantage.” 

Here a thought struck me. 

“ I fancy, papa, it is not for her own sake Miss Clare lives 
here.” 

** I hope not,” she interposed. 

“I believe,” I went on, “she has a grandmother, who 
probably has grown accustomed to the place, and is unwilling 
to leave it.” 

She looked puzzled for a moment, then burst into a merry 
laugh. 

“ I see,” she exclaimed. “ How stupid I am ! You have 
heard some of the people in the house talk 2ho\xi grannie: 
that’s me ! lam known in the house as grannie, and have been 
for a good many years now—I can hardly, without thinking, tell 
for how many.” 

Again she laughed heartily, and my father and I shared her 
merriment. 

“ How many grandchildren have you then, pray, Miss Clare ? 

“ Let me see.” 


Miss Claris Homs, 


m 

She thought for a minute. 

“ I could easily tell you if it were only the people in this 
house I had to reckon up. They are about five-and-thirty; but 
unfortunately the name has been caught up in the neighbouring 
houses, and I am very sorry that in consequence I cannot with 
certainty say how many grandchildren I have. I think I know 
them all, however, and I fancy that is more than many an 
English grandmother, with children in America, India, and 
Australia, can say for herself.^* 

Certainly she was not older than I was ; and while hearing 
her merry laugh and seeing her young face overflowed with 
smiles, which appeared to come sparkling out of her eyes as out 
of two well-springs, one could not help feeling puzzled how, 
even in the farthest-off jest, she could have got the name of 
grannie. But I could at the same time recall expressions of her 
countenance which would much better agree with the name 
than that which now shone from it. 

“ Would you like to hear,” she said, when our merriment 
had a little subsided, “how I have so easily arrived at the 
honourable name of grannie—at least all I know about it ? ” 

“ I should be delighted,” said my father. 

“ You don’t know what you are pledging yourself to when 
you say so,” she rejoined, again laughing. “You will have to 
hear the whole of my story from the beginning.” 

“ Again I say I shall be delighted,” returned my father, con¬ 
fident that her history 0)uld be the source of nothing but 
pleasure to him. 


124 


The Vicat^s Daughter. 


CHAPTER XX. 

HER STORY. 

Thereupon Miss Clare began. I do not pretend to give 
her very words, but I must tell her story as if she were tell¬ 
ing it herself. I shall be as true as I can to the facts, and 

hope to catch something of the tone of the narrator as I 

go on. 

“ My mother died when I was very young, and I was left 

alone with my father, for I was his only child. He was a 

studious and thoughtful man. It 7 nay be the partiality of a 
daughter, I know, hut I am not necessarily wrong in believing 
that diffidence in his own powers alone prevented him from 
distinguishing himself. As it was, he supported himself and 
me by literary work of, I presume, a secondary order. He 
would spend all his mornings for many weeks in the library of 
the British Museum—reading and making notes ; after which 
he would sit writing at home for as long or longer. I should 
have found it very dull during the former of these times, had 
he not early discovered that I had some capacity for music, 
and provided for me what I now know to have been the best 
instruction to be had. His feeling alone had guided him right, 
for he was without musical knowledge : I believe he could not 
have found me a better teacher in all Europe. Her character 
was lovely, and her music the natural outcome of its harmony. 
But I must not forget it is about myself I have to tell you. I 
went to her, then, almost every day for a time—but how long 
that was^ I can only guess. It must have been several years, 
I think, else I could not have attained what proficiency I 
had when my sorrow came upon me. 

“ What my father wrote I cannot tell. How gladly would I 
now read the shortest sentence I knew to be his ! He never 
told me for what journals he wrote, or even for what publishers. 
I fancy it was work in which his brain was more interested 


125 


Her Story, 

than his heart, and which he was always hoping to exchange 
for something more to his mind. After his death I could dis¬ 
cover scarcely a scrap of his writings and not a hint to guide 
me to what he had written. 

I believe we went on living from hand to mouth, my tather 
never getting so far ahead of the wolf as to be able to pause 
and choose his way. But I was very happy, and would have 
been no whit less happy if he had explained our circumstances, 
for that would have conveyed to me no hint of danger. 
Neither has any of the suffering I have had—at least any keen 
enough to be worth dwelling upon—sprung from personal 
privation, although I am not unacquainted with hunger and 
cold. 

“ My happiest time was when my father asked me to play to 
him while he wrote, and I sat down to my old cabinet Broad- 
wood—the one you see there is as like it as I could find—and 
played anything and everything I liked—for somehow I never 
forgot what I had once learned—while my father sat, as he said, 
like a meje extension of the instrument, operated upon, rather 
than listening, as he wrote. What I then thought I cannot tell, 
I don’t believe I thought at all. I only musicated^ as a little 
pupil of mine once said to me, when, having found her sitting 
with her hands on her lap before the piano, I asked her what 
she was doing ; ‘ I am only musicating,’ she answered. But 
the enjoyment was none the less that there was no conscious 
thought in it. 

“ Other branches, he taught me himself, and I believe I got 
on very fairly for my age. We lived then in the neighbourhood 
of the Museum, where I was well known to all the people of 
the place, for I used often to go there, and would linger 
about looking at things, sometimes for hours before my 
father came to me; but he always came at the very minute he 
had said, and always found me at the appointed spot. I 
gained a great deal by thus haunting the Museum—a great 
deal more than I supposed at the time. One gain was, that 
I knew perfectly where in the place any given sort of thing was 


126 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

to be founo, if it were there at all: I had unconsciously learned 
something of classification. 

“ One afternoon I was waiting as usual, but my father did 
not come at the time appointed. I waited on and on till it 
grew dark, and the hour for closing arrived, by which time I 
was in great uneasiness ; but I was forced to go home without 
him. I must hasten over this part of my history, for even yet 
I can scarcely bear to speak of it. I found that while I was 
waiting, he had been seized with some kind of fit in the read¬ 
ing-room, and had been carried home, and that I was alone 
in the world. The landlady, for we only rented rooms in the 
house, was very kind to me, at least until she found that my father 
had left no money. He had then been only reading for a long 
time, and, when I looked back, I could see that he must have 
been short of money for some weeks at least. A few bills 
coming in, all our little effects—for the furniture was our own 
—were sold, without bringing sufficient to pay them. The 
things went for less than half their value, in consequence, I 
believe, of that well-known conspiracy of the brokers which 
they call knocking out. I was especially miserable at losing my 
father’s books, which, although in ignorance, I greatly valued 
—more miserable even, I honestly think, than at seeing my 
loved piano carried off. 

“When the sale was over, and everything removed, I sat 
down on the floor, amidst the dust and bits of paper and straw 
and cord, without a single idea in my head as to what was to 
become of me, or what I was to do next. I didn’t cry — that 
I am sure of—but I doubt if in all London there was a more 
wretched child than myself just then. The twilight was dark¬ 
ening down—the twilight of a November afternoon. Of course 
there was no fire in the grate, and I had eaten nothing that 
day; for, although the landlady had offered me some dinner, 
and I had tried to please her by taking some, I found I could 
not swallow, and had to leave it. While I sat thus on the 
floor, I heard her come into the room, and some :fie with her, 
but 1 did not look round, and they, not seeing me, and think* 



Does Miss Clare live in this house ? ” iny father asked. 



























































































































































Her Story. 12/ 

Ing, I suppose, that I was in one of the other rooms, went on 
talking about me. All I afterwards remembered of their con¬ 
versation was some severe reflections on my father, and the 
announcement of the decree that I must go to the workhouse. 
Though I knew nothing definite as to the import of this doom, 
it filled me with horror. The moment they left me alone, ot 
look for me, as I supposed, I got up, and, walking as softly as 
I could, glided down the stairs, and, unbonneted and un¬ 
wrapped, ran from the house, half-blind with terror. 

“ I had not gone farther, I fancy, than a few yards, when I 
ran up against some one, who laid hold of me, and asked me 
gruffly what I meant by it. I knew the voice; it was that of 
an old Irishwoman who did all the little charing we wanted— 
for I kept the rooms tidy, and the landlady cooked for us. As 
soon as she saw who it was, her tone changed, and then first I 
broke out in sobs, and told her I was running away because 
they were going to send me to the workhouse. She burst into 
a torrent of Irish indignation, and assured me that such should 
never be my fate while she lived. I must go back to the house 
with her, she said, and get my things; and then I should go 
home with her until something better should turn up. I told 
her I would go with her anywhere, except into that house 
again ; and she did not insist, but afterwards went by herself 
and got my little wardrobe. In the meantime she led me away 
to a large house in a square, of which she took the key from 
her pocket to open the door. It looked to me such a huge 
place!—the largest house I had ever been in; but it was 
rather desolate, for, except in one little room below, where she 
had scarcely more than a bed and a chair, a slip of carpet and 
a frying-pan, there was not an article of furniture in the whole 
place. She had been put there when the last tenant left, to take 
care of the place, until another tenant should appear to turn 
her out. She had her house-room and a trifle a week besides 
for her services, beyond which she depended entirely on what 
she could make by charing. When she had no house to live 
in on the same terms, she took a room somewhere. 


128 


The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

“ Here I lived for several months, and was able to be of use \ 
for, as Mrs. Conan was bound to Le there at certain times to 
show any one over the house who brought an order from the 
agent, and this necessarily took up a good part of her working 
time; and as, moreover, I could open the door and walk about 
the place as well as another, she willingly left me in charge as 
often as she had a job elsewhere. 

“ On such occasions, however, I found it very dreary indeed, 
for few people called, and she would not unfrequently be absent 
the whole day. If I had had my piano, I should have cared 
little; but I had not a single book, except one—and what do 
you think that was ? An odd volume of the Newgate Calendar. 
I need hardly say that it had not the effect on me which it is 
said to have on some of its students: it moved me indeed to 
the profoundest sympathy, not with the crimes of the male¬ 
factors, only with the malefactors themselves, and their mental 
condition after the deed was actuallydone. But it was with thefas- 
cination of a hopeless horror, making me feel almost as if I had 
committed every crime as I perused its tale, that I regarded them. 
They were to me like living crimes. It was not until long 
afterwards that I was able to understand that a man’s actions are 
not the man, but may be separated from him; that his character 
even is not the man, but may be changed, while he yet holds 
the same individuality—is the man who was blind though he 
now sees ; whence it comes that, the deeds continuing his, all 
stain of them may yet be washed out of him. I did not, I say, 
understand all this until afterwards, but I believe, odd as it 
may seem, that volume of the Newgate Calendar threw down the 
first deposit of soil from which afterwards sprang what grew 
to be almost a passion in me for getting the people about me 
clean—a passion which might have done as much harm as good, 
if its companion patience had not been sent me to guide and 
restrain it. In a word, I came at length to understand in 
some measure the last prayer of our Lord for those that 
crucified him, and the ground on which he begged from hia 
Father their forgiveness—that they knew not what they did 


Her Story. 129 

If the Newgate Calendar was indeed the beginning of this 
course of education, I need not regret having lost my piano, 
and having that volume for a while as my only Aid to Reflec¬ 
tion. 

“ My father had never talked much to me about religion, but 
when he did, it was with such evident awe in his spirit and 
reverence in his demeanour, as had more effect on me, I am 
certain, from the very paucity of the words in which his mean¬ 
ing found utterance. Another thing which had still more in¬ 
fluence upon me was, that, waking one night after I had been 
asleep for some time, I saw him on his knees by my bedside. 
I did not move or speak, for fear of disturbing him; and, in¬ 
deed, such an awe came over me, that it would have required 
a considerable effort of the will for any bodily movement what¬ 
ever. When he lifted his head, I caught a glimpse of a pale, 
tearful face ; and it is no wonder that the virtue of the sight 
should never have passed away. 

“ On Sundays we went to church in the morning, and in the 
afternoon, in fine weather, went out for a walk; or, if it were 
raining or cold, I played to him till he fell asleep on the sofa. 
Then, in the evening, after tea, we had more music, some 
poetry, which we read alternately, and a chapter of the New 
Testament, which he always read to me. I mention this, to 
,;how you that I did not come all unprepared to the study of 
the Newgate Calendar. Still, I cannot think that, under any 
circumstances, it could have done an innocent child harm. 
Even familiarity with vice is not necessarily pollution. There 
cannot be many women of my age as familiar with it in every 
shape as I am; and I do not find that I grow to regard it 
with one atom less of absolute abhorrence, although I neither 
shudder at the mention of it, nor turn with disgust from the 
person in whom it dwells. But the consolations of religion 
were not yet consciously mine. I had not yet begun to think 
of God in any relation to myself. 

“ The house was in an old square, built, I believe, in the 
reign of Queen Anne, which, although many of the houses 

K 


130 The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

were occupied by well-to-do people, had fallen far from its first 
high estate. No one would believe, to look at it from the out¬ 
side, what a great place it was. The whole of the space 
behind it, corresponding to the small gardens of the other 
houses, was occupied by a large music-room, under which was 
a low-pitched room of equal extent, while all under that were 
cellars, connected with the sunk story in front by a long vaulted 
passage, corresponding to a wooden gallery above, which formed 
a communication between the drawing-room floor and the 
music-room. Most girls of my age, knowing these vast empty 
spaces about them, would have been terrified at being left alone 
there even in mid-day. But I was, I suppose, too miserable to 
be frightened. Even the horrible facts of the Newgate Calendar 
did not thus affect me, not even when Mrs. Conan was later 
than usual, and the night came down, and I had to sit, perhaps 
for hours, in the dark—for she would not allow me to have a 
candle for fear of fire. But you will not wonder that I used 
to cry a good deal, although I did my best to hide the traces 
of it, because I knew it would annoy my kind old friend. She 
showed me a great deal of rough tenderness, which would not 
have been rough had not the natural grace of her Irish nature 
been injured by the contact of many years with the dull coarse¬ 
ness of the uneducated Saxon. You may be sure I learned to 
love her dearly. She shared everything with me in the way 
of eating, and would have shared also the tumbler of gin and 
water with which she generally ended the day, but something, 
I don’t know what, I believe a simple physical dislike, made me 
refuse that altogether. 

“ One evening I have particular cause to remember, both 
for itself and because of something that followed many years 
after. I was in the drawing-room on the first floor, a double 
room with folding doors and a small cabinet behind communi¬ 
cating with a back stair, for the stairs were double all through 
the house, adding much to the eeriness of the place as I look 
back upon it in my memory. I fear, in describing the place so 
minutely, 1 may have been rousing false expectations of an 


Her Story, 131 

adventure, but I have a reason for being rather minute, though 
it will not appear until afterwards. I had been looking out of 
the window all the afternoon upon the silent square, for, as it 
was no thoroughfare, it was only enlivened by the passing and 
returning now and then of a tradesman’s cart; and, as it was 
winter, there were no children playing in the garden. It was a 
rainy afternoon. A great cloud of fog and soot hung from 
the whole sky. About a score of yellow leaves yet quivered 
on the trees, and the statue of Queen Anne stood bleak and 
disconsolate among the bare branches. I am afraid I am 
getting long-winded—but somehow that afternoon seems burned 
into me in enamel. I gazed drearily without interest. I brooded 
over the past; I never, at this time, so far as I remember, 
dreamed of looking forward. 1 had no hope. It never occurred 
to me that things might grow better. I was dull and wretched. 
I may just say here in passing that I think this experience is 
in a great measure what has enabled me to understand the 
peculiar misery of the poor in our large towns—they have no 
hope, no impulse to look forward—nothing to expect; they 
live but in the present, and the dreariness of that soon shapes 
the whole atmosphere of their spirits to its own likeness. Per¬ 
haps the first thing one who would help them has to do, is to 
aid the birth of some small vital hope in them; that is better 
than a thousand gifts, especially those of the ordinary kind, 
which mostly do harm, tending to keep them what they are—a 
prey to present and importunate wants. 

“ It began to grow dark, and, tired of standing, I sat down 
upon the floor, for there was nothing to , sit upon besides. 
There I still sat, long after it was quite dark. All at once a 
surge of self-pity arose in my heart I burst out wailing and 
sobbing, and cried aloud—* God has forgotten me altogether ! ’ 
The fact was I had had no dinner that day, for Mrs. Conan 
had expected to return long before; and the piece of bread 
she h.«,d given me, which was all that was in the house, I had 
eaten many hours ago. But I was not thinking of my dinner, 
though the want of it may have had to do with this burst of 

K 2 


132 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

misery. What I was really thinking of was—that I could do 
nothing for anybody. My little ambition had always been to 
be useful. I knew I was of some use to my father, for I kept 
the rooms tidy for him, and dusted his pet books—oh, so care¬ 
fully 1 for they were like household gods to me. I had also 
played to him, and I knew he enjoyed that: he said so, many 
times. And I had begun, though not long before he left me, 
to think how I should be able to help him better by-and-by. 
For I saw that he worked very hard—so hard that it made him 
silent; and I knew that my music-mistress made her livelihood, 
partly at least, by giving lessons; and I thought that I might, 
by-and-by, be able to give lessons too, and then papa would 
not require to work so hard, for I too should bring home money 
to pay for what we wanted. But now I was of use to nobody, 
I said, and not likely to become of any. I could not even help 
poor Mrs. Conan, except by doing what a child might do just 
as well as I, for I did not earn a penny of our living; I only 
gave the poor old thing time to work harder, that I might eat 
up her earnings ! What added to the misery was that I had 
always thought of myself as a lady—for was not papa a gentle¬ 
man—let him be ever so poor? Shillings and sovereigns in 
his pocket could not determine whether a man was a gentleman 
or not! And if he was a gentleman, his daughter must be a 
lady. But how could I be a lady if I was content to be a 
burden to a poor charwoman, instead of earning my own living, 
and something besides with which to help her ? For I had 
the notion—it came I cannot tell, though I know well 
enough whence it came—that position depended on how much 
a person was able to help other people; and here I was, useless, 
worse than useless to anybody ! Why did not God remember 
me, if it was only for my fathers sake ? He was worth some¬ 
thing, if I was not! And I would be worth something, if only 
I had a chance!—‘I am of no use,’ I cried, ‘and God has 
forgotten me altogether 1 ’ And I went on weeping and moan¬ 
ing in my great misery, until I fell fast asleep on the floor. 

“ 1 have no theory about dreams and visions; and 1 don’t 


133 


Her SiJij, 

know what you, Mr. Walton, may think as to whether these 
ended with the first ages of the church; but surely if one 
falls fast asleep without an idea in one’s head, and a whole 
dismal world of misery in one’s heart, and wakes up quiet and 
refreshed, without the misery, and with an idea, there can be no 
great fanaticism in thinking that the change may have come 
from somewhere near where the miracles lie—in fact, that God 
may have had something—might I not say everything?—to 
do with it. For my part, if I were to learn that he had no 
hand in this experience of mine, I couldn’t help losing all in¬ 
terest in it, and wishing that I had died of the misery which it 
dispelled. Certainly, if it had a physical source, it wasn’t that 
I was more comfortable, for I was hungrier than ever, and, you 
may well fancy, cold enough, having slept on the bare floor 
without anything to cover me, on Christmas-Eve—for Christmas- 
Eve it was. No doubt my sleep had done me good, but I 
suspect the sleep came to quiet my mind for the reception of 
the new idea. 

“ The way Mrs. Conan kept Christmas-Day, as she told 
me in the morning, was—to comfort her old bones in bed 
until the afternoon, and then to have a good tea with a chop; 
after which she said she would have me read the Newgate 
Calendar to her. So, as soon as I had washed up the few 
breakfast things, I asked if, while she lay in bed, I might not go 
out for a little while, to look for work. She laughed at the 
notion of my being able to do anything, but did not object to 
my trying. So I dressed myself as neatly as I could, and set 
out. 

“ There were two narrow streets full of small shops, in which 
those of furniture-brokers predominated, leading from the two 
lower corners of the square down into Oxford-street; and in a 
shop in one of these, I was not sure which, I had seen an old 
piano standing, and a girl of about my own age watching. I 
found the shop at last, although it was shut up, for I knew the 
name, and knocked at the door. It was opened by a stout 
matron, with a not unlHendly expression, who asked me what I 


134 The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

wanted. I told her I wanted work. She seemed amused at tli^ 
idea—for I was very small for my age then, as well as now—but, 
apparently willing to have a chat with me, asked what I 
could do. I told her I could teach her daughter music. She 
asked me what made me come to her, and I told her. Then she 
asked me how much I should charge. I told her that some 
ladies had a guinea a lesson, at which she laughed so heartily, 
that I had to wait until the first transports of her amusement 
were over before I could finish by saying that for my part I 
should be glad to give an hour’s lesson for threepence, only, if 
she pleased, I should prefer it in silver. But how was she to 
know, she asked, that I could teach her properly ? I told her 
I would let her hear me play; whereupon she led me into the 
shop, through a back room in which her husband sat smoking a 
long pipe with a tankard at hi? elbow. Having taken down a 
shutter, she managed with some difficulty to clear me a passage 
through a crowd of furniture to the instrument, and with a 
struggle I squeezed through and reached it \ but at the first 
chord I struck, I gave a cry of dismay. In some alarm she 
asked what was the matter, calling me child very kindly. I told 
her it was so dreadfully out of tune I couldn’t play upon it at 
all; but if she would get it tuned, I should not be long in 
showing her I could do what I professed. She told me she 
could not afford to have it tuned, j\nd if I could not teach 
Bertha on it as it was, she couldn’t heJp it. This however, I 
assured her, was utterly impossible; upon which, with some 
show of offence, she reached over a chest of drawers, and shut 
down the cover. I believe she doubted whether I could play at 
all, and had not been merely amusing mypelf at her expense. 
Nothing was left but to thank her, bid her good morning, and 
walk out of the house, dreadfully disappointed 

“Unwilling to go home at once, I wandered about the 
neighbourhood, through street after street, until I found myself 
in another square, with a number of business-signs ir it—one of 
them that of a pianoforte firm, at sight of which, a thought 
came into my head: the next morning I went in, and re' 


Her Story. 135 

quested to see the master. The man to whom I spoke stared 
no doubt, but he went, and returning after a little while, 
during which my heart beat very fast, invited me to walk into 
the counting-house. Mr. Perkins was amused with the story 
of my attempt to procure teaching, and its frustration. If I had 
asked him for money, to which I do not believe hunger itself 
could have driven me, he would probably have got rid of me 
quickly enough—and small blame to him, as Mrs. Conan 
would have said; but to my request that he would spare a man 
to tune Mrs. Lampeter’s piano, he replied at once that he 
would, provided I could satisfy him as to my efficiency. 
Thereupon he asked me a few questions about music, of which 
some I could answer and some I could not Next he took me 
into the shop, set me a stool in front of a grand piano, and told 
me to play. I could not help trembling a good deal, but I 
tried my best. In a few moments, however, the tears were drop¬ 
ping on the keys, and when he asked me what was the matter, 
I told him it was months since I had touched a piano. The 
answer did not however satisfy him; he asked very kindly 
how that was, and I had to tell him my whole story. Then 
he not only promised to have the piano tuned for me at once, 
but told me that I might go and practice there as often as I 
pleased, so long as I was a good girl, and did not take up with 
bad company. Imagine my delight! Then he sent for a 
tuner, and I suppose told him a little about me, for the man 
spoke very kindly to me as we went to the broker’s. 

‘‘ Mr. Perkins has been a good friend to me ever since. 

“For six months I continued to give Bertha Lampeter 
lessons. They were broken off only when she went to a dress¬ 
maker to learn her business. But her mother had by that 
time introduced me to several families of her acquaintance, 
amongst whom I found five or six pupils on the same terms. 
By this teaching, if I earned little, I learned much; and every 
day almost I practised at the music-shop. 

“ When the house was let, Mrs. Conan took a room in the 
neighbourhood, that I might keep up my connexion, she said. 


136 The Vica/s Daughter. 

Then first I was introduced to scenes and experiences with 
which I am now familiar. Mrs. Percivale might well recoil if 
I were to tell her half the wretchedness, wickedness, and vul¬ 
garity I have seen, and often had to encounter. For two years 
or so we changed about, at one time in an empty house, at 
another in a hired room, sometimes better, sometimes worse off 
as regarded our neighbours, until, Mrs. Conan having come to 
the conclusion that it would be better for her to confine herself 
to charing, we at last settled down here, where I have now lived 
for many years. 

“ You may be inclined to ask why I had not kept up my ac¬ 
quaintance with my music-mistress. I believe the shock of 
losing my father and the misery that followed made me feel as if 
my former world had vanished; at all events I never thought of 
going to her until Mr. Perkins one day, after listening to 
something I was playing, asked me who had taught me; and 
this brought her back to my mind so vividly that I resolved 
to go and see her. She welcomed me with more than kind¬ 
ness—with tenderness, and told me I had caused her much 
uneasiness by not letting her know what had become of me. She 
looked quite aghast when she learned in what sort of place and 
with whom I lived; but I told her that Mrs. Conan had saved me 
from the workhouse, and was as much of a mother to me as it 
was possible for her to be, that we loved each other, and that it 
would be very wrong of me to leave her, now especially 
that she was not so well as she had been ; and I believe she 
then saw the thing as I saw it. She made me play to her, was 
pleased—indeed surprised, until I told her how I had been sup¬ 
porting myself—and insisted on my resuming my studies with 
her, which I was only too glad to do. I now of course got 
on much faster, and she expressed satisfaction with my pro¬ 
gress, but continued manifestly uneasy at the kind of thing I 
had to encounter, and become of necessity more and more 
familiar with. 

" When Mrs. Conan fell ill, I had indeed hard work of it 
Unlike most of her class, she had laid by a trifle of money, but 


137 


Her Story, 

as soon as she ceased to add to it, it began to dwindle, and was 
<rery soon gone. Do what I could for a while, if it had not been 
for the kindness of the neighbours, I should sometimes have 
been in want of bread \ i nd when I hear hard things said of the 
poor, I often think that surely improvidence is not so bad as 
selfishness. But, of course, there are all sorts amongst them, 
just as there are all sorts in every class. When I went out to 
teach, now one, now another of the women in the house 
would take charge of my friend \ and when I came home, 
except her guardian happened to have got tipsy, I never found 
she had been neglected. Miss Harper said I must raise my 
terms ; but I told her that would be the loss of my pupils. 
Then she said she must see what could be done for me, only no 
one she knew was likely to employ a child like me, if I were able 
to teach ever so well. One morning, however, within a week, 
a note came from Lady Bernard, asking me to go and see her. 

“I went, and found —a mother. You do not know her, I 
think ? But you must one day. Good people like you must 
come together. I will not attempt to describe her. She awed 
me at first, and I could hardly speak to her—I was not much 
more than thirteen then, but with the awe came a certain con¬ 
fidence which was far better than ease. The immediate result 
was that she engaged me to go and play for an hour five days a 
week, at a certain hospital for sick children in the neighbour¬ 
hood, which she partly supported. For she had a strong belief 
that there was in music a great healing power. Her theory was 
that all healing energy operates first on the mind, and from it 
passes to the body, and that medicines render aid only by re¬ 
moving certain physical obstacles to the healing force. She be¬ 
lieves that when music operating on the mind has procured the 
peace of harmony, the peace in its turn operates outward, re¬ 
ducing the vital powers also into the harmonious action of 
health. How much there may be in it, I cannot tell; but I do 
think that good has been and is the result of my playing to those 
children—for I go still, though not quite so often, and it is 
music to me to watch my music thrown back in light from some 


138 The Vicat^s Daughter. 

of those sweet pale suffering faces. She was too wise to pay me 
much for it at first. She inquired, before making me the offer, 
how much I was already earning, asked me upon how much I 
could support Mrs. Conan and myself comfortably, and then 
made the sum of my weekly earnings up to that amount. At 
the same time, however, she sent many things to warm and feed 
the old woman, so that my mind was set at ease about her. She 
got a good deal better for a while, but continued to suffer so 
much from rheumatism, that she was quite unfit to go out 
charing any more ; and I would not hear of her again exposing 
herself to the damps and draughts of empty houses, so long as 
I was able to provide for her—of which ability you may be 
sure I was not a little proud at first. 

“ I have been talking for a long time, and yet may seem to 
have said nothing to account for your finding me where she left 
me; but I will try to come to the point as quickly as possible. 

“ Before she was entirely laid up, we had removed to this 
place—a rough shelter, but far less so than some of the houses 
in which we had been. I remember one in which I used to 
dart up and down like a hunted hare at one time—at another 
to steal along from stair to stair like a well-meaning ghost afraid 
of frightening people; my mode of procedure depending in 
part on the time of day, and which of the inhabitants I had 
reason to dread meeting. It was a good while before the in¬ 
mates of this house and I began to know each other. The 
landlord had turned out the former tenant of this garret after 
she had been long enough in the house for all the rest to 
know her, and, notwithstanding she had been no great 
favourite, they all took her part against the landlord; and fancy¬ 
ing, perhaps because we kept more to ourselves, that we were 
his pjvtegeeSy and that he had turned out Muggy Moll, as they 
called her, to make room for us, regarded us from the first with 
disapprobation. The little girls would make grimaces at me, and 
the bigger girls would pull my hair, slap my face, and even 
occasionally push me down-stairs, while the boys made them¬ 
selves far more terrible in my eyes. But, some remark hap 


Her Story, 139 

pening to be dropped one day, which led the landlord to dis¬ 
claim all previous knowledge of us, things began to grow better. 
And this is not by any means one of the worst parts of London. 
I could take Mr. Walton to houses in the East-end, where the 
manners are indescribable. We are all earning our bread here. 
Some have an occasional attack of drunkenness, and idle 
about; but they are sick of it again after a while. I remember 
asking a woman once if her husband would be present at a 
little entertainment to which Lady Bernard had invited them : 
she answered that he would be there if he was drunk, but if he 
was sober, he couldn’t spare the time. 

“Very soon they began to ask me after Mrs. Conan, and 
one day I invited one of them, who seemed a decent though 
not very tidy woman, to walk up and see her; for I was anxious 
she should have a visitor now and then when I was out, as 
she complained a good deal of the loneliness. The woman 
consented, and ever after was very kind to her. But my 
main stay and comfort was an old woman who then occu¬ 
pied the room opposite to this. She was such a good creature ! 
Nearly blind, she yet kept her room the very pink of neat¬ 
ness. I never saw a speck of dust on that chest of drawers, 
which was hers then, and which she valued far more than nmny 
a rich man values the house of his ancestors—not only because 
it had been her mother’s, but because it bore testimony to the 
respectability of her family. Her floor and her little muslin 
window curtain, her bed and everything about her, were as 
dean as lady could desire. She objected to move into abetter 
room below, which the landlord kindly offered her—for she 
was a favourite from having been his tenant a long time and 
never having given him any tr\.uble in collecting her rent— 
on the ground that there were two windows in it and therefore 
too much light for her bits of furniture. They would, she 
said, look nothing in that room. She was very pleased when 
I asked her to pay a visit to Mrs. Conan, and as she belonged 
to a far higher intellectual grade than my protectress, and as 
she had a strong practical sense of religion, chiefly manifested in 


140 


The Vicat^s Daughter. 

a willing acceptance of the decrees of providence, I think she 
did us both good. I wish I could draw you a picture of her 
coming in at that door, with her all but sightless eyes, the 
broad borders of her white cap waving, and her hands 
stretched out before her—for she was more apprehensive than 
if she had been quite blind, because she could see things with¬ 
out knowing what, or even in what position they were. The 
most remarkable thing to me was the calmness with which 
she looked forward to her approaching death, although without 
the expectation which so many good people seem to have 
in connexion with their departure. I talked to her about it 
more than once—not with any presumption of teaching her, for 
I felt she was far before me, but just to find out how she felt 
and what she believed. Her answer amounted to this, that she 
had never known beforehand what lay round the next corner, 
or what was going to happen to her, for if Providence had 
meant her to know, it could not be by going to fortune-tellers, 
as some of the neighbours did; but that she always found 
things turn out right and good for her, and she did not doubt 
she would find it so when she came to the last turn. 

“ By degrees I knew everybody in the house, and of course 
I was ready to do what I could to help any of them. I had 
much to lift me into a higher region of mental comfort than was 
open to them, for I had music, and Lady Bernard lent me books. 

“ Of course also I kept my rooms as clean and tidy as I 
could, and indeed if I had been more carelessly inclined in 
that way, the sight of the blind woman’s would have been a 
constant reminder to me. By degrees also I was able to get 
a few more articles of furniture for it, and a bit of carpet to 
put down before the fire. I whitewashed the walls myself, 
and after a while began to whitewash the walls of the landing 
as well, and all down the stair, which was not of much use to 
the eye, for there is no light. Before long some of the other 
tenants began to whitewash their rooms also, and contrive to 
keep things a little tidier. Others declared they had no opinion 
of su«,h uppish notions; they weren’t for the likes of them. 


141 


Her Story. 

These were generally such as would rejoice in wearing finery 
picked up at the rag-shop; but even some of them began by 
degrees to cultivate a small measure of order. Soon this one 
and that began to apply to me for help in various difficulties 
that arose. But they didn’t begin to call me grannie for a 
long time after this. They used then to call the blind woman 
grannie, and the name got associated with the top of the house, 
and I came to be associated with it because 1 also lived there 
and we were friends. After her death, it was used from habit, 
at first with a feeling of mistake, seeing its immediate owner 
was gone; but by degrees it settled down upon me, and I 
came to be called grannie by everybody in the house. Even 
Mrs. Conan would not unfrequently address me, and speak of 
me too, as grannie, at first with a laugh, but soon as a matter 
of course. 

“ I got by-and-by a few pupils amongst tradespeople of a 
class rather superior to that in which I had begun to teach, 
and from whom I could ask and obtain double my former fee; 
so that things grew, with fluctuations, gradually better. Lady 
Bernard continued a true friend to me—but she never was 
other than that to any. Some of her friends ventured on the 
experiment whether I could teach their children; and it is no 
wonder if they were satisfied, seeing I had myself such a teacher. 

“ Having come once or twice to see Mrs. Conan, she dis¬ 
covered that we were gaining a little influence over the people 
in the house; and it occurred ^o her, as she told me afterwards, 
that the virtue of music might ue tried there with a moral end 
in view. Hence it came that I was beyond measure astonished 
and delighted one evening by the arrival of a piano—not that 
one, for it got more worn than I liked, and I was able after¬ 
wards to exchange it for a better. I found it an invaluable 
aid in the endeavour to work out my growing desire of getting 
the people about me into a better condition. First I asked 
some of the children to come and listen while I played. 
Everybody knows how fond the least educated children are of 
miuiic; and I feel assured of its elevating pov\er. Whatevei 


142 The Vicar's Daughter, 

the street organs may be to poets and mathematicians, they 
are certainly a godsend to the children of our courts and alleys. 
The music takes possession of them at once, and sets them 
moving to it with rhythmical grace. I should have been very 
sorry to make it a condition with those I invited, that they 
should sit still; to take from them their personal share in it, 
would have been to destroy half the charm of the thing. A 
far higher development is needful before music can be enjoyed 
in silence and motionlessness. The only condition I made 
was, that they should come with clean hands and faces, and 
with tidy hair. Considerable indignation was at first manifested 
on the part of those parents whose children I refused to admit 
because they had neglected the condition. This necessity 
however did not often occur, and the anger passed away, while 
the condition gathered weight. After a while, guided by what 
some of the children let fall, I began to invite the mothers to 
join them; and at length it came to be understood that, every 
Saturday evening, whoever chose to make herself tidy would 
be welcome to an hour or two of my music. Some of the hus¬ 
bands next began to come, but there were never so many of 
them present. I may just add that although the manners of 
some of my audience would be very shocking to cultivated 
people, and I understand perfectly how they must be so, I am 
very rarely annoyed on such occasions. 

“ I must now glance at another point in my history—one on 
which I cannot dwell. Never since my father’s death had I 
attended public worship. Nothing had drawn me thither; 
and I hardly know what induced me one evening to step into 
a chapel of which I knew nothing. There was not even 
Sunday to account for it. I believe, however, it had to do 
with this—that all day I had been feeling tired. I think people 
are often ready to suppose that their bodily condition is the 
cause of their spiritual discomfort, when it may be only the 
occasion upon which some inward lack reveals itself. That 
the spiritual nature should be incapable of meeting and sustain¬ 
ing the body in its troubles, is of itself sufficient to show that 


tier Story. 14J 

it is not in a satisfactory condition. For a long time the 
struggle for mere existence had almost absorbed my energies; 
but things had been easier for some time, a reaction had at 
length come. It was not that I could lay anything definite 
to my own charge; I only felt empty all through ; I felt that 
something was not right with me, that something was required 
of me which I was not rendering. I could not however have 
told you what it was. Possibly the feeling had been for some 
time growing; but that day, so far as I can tell, I was first 
aware of it \ and I presume it was the dim cause of my turning 
at the sound of a few singing voices, and entering that chapel 
I found about a dozen people present. Something in the air 
of the place, meagre and waste as it looked, yet induced me to 
remain. An address followed from a pale-faced, weak-looking 
man of middle age, who had no gift of person, voice, or utter¬ 
ance to recommend what he said. But there dwelt a more 
powerful enforcement in him than any of those—that of 
earnestness. I went again and again; and slowly, I cannot 
well explain how, the sense of life and its majesty grew upon 
me. Mr. Walton will, I trust, understand me when I say, that 
to one hungering for bread, it is of little consequence in what 
sort of platter it is handed him. This was a dissenting chapel 
—of what order, it was long before I knew—and my predilec¬ 
tion was for the Church-services, those to which my father had 
accustomed me; but any comparison of the two to the pre¬ 
judice of either, I should still—although a communicant of the 
church of England—regard with absolute indifference. 

“It will be sufficient for my present purpose to allude to the 
one practical thought which was the main fruit I gathered from 
this good man—the fruit by which I know that he was good.* 
It was this—thai- if all the labour of God, as my teacher said, 
was to bring sor.s into glory, lifting them out of the abyss of 
evil bondage u\) to the rock of his pure freedom, the only 

* Something like this is the interpretation of the word: “ By their 
fru.-ts ye shall know them,’’ given by Mr. Maurice—an interpreta¬ 
tion whiclr opens much.—G. M. D. 


144 


The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

worthy end of life must be to work in the same direction—to 
be a fellow-worker with God. Might I not then do something 
such, in my small way, and lose no jot of my labour ? I thought. 
The urging, the hope grew in me. But I was not left to feel 
blindly after some new and unknown method of labour. My 
teacher taught me that the way for me to help others, was not 
to tell them their duty, but myself to learn of him who bore 
our griefs and carried our sorrows. As I learned of him, I 
should be able to help them. I h.ave never had any theory 
but just to be their friend—to do for them the best I can. 
When I feel I may, I tell them what has done me good, but I 
never urge any belief of mine upon their acceptance. 

“ It will now seem no more wonderful to you than to me, 
that I should remain where I am. I simply have no choice. 
I was sixteen when Mrs. Conan died. Then my friends, 
amongst whom Lady Bernard and Miss Harper have ever been 
first, expected me to remove to lodgings in another neighbour¬ 
hood. Indeed, Lady Bernard came to see me, and said she 
knew precisely the place for me. When I told her I should 
remain where I was, she was silent, and soon left me—I thought 
offended. I wrote to her at once, explaining why I chose my 
part here; saying that I would not hastily alter anything that 
had been appointed me; that I loved the people \ that they 
called me grannie; that they came to me with their troubles; 
that there were few changes in the house now; that the sick 
looked to me for help, and the children for teaching; that 
they seemed to be steadily rising in the moral scale; that I 
knew some of them were trying hard to be good; and I put it 
to her whether, if I were to leave them, in order merely, as 
servants say, to better myself, I should not be forsaking my 
post, almost my family; for I knew it would not be to better 
either myself or my friends : if I was at all necessary to them, 
I knew they were yet more necessary to me. 

“ I have a burning desire to help in the making of the world 
clean—if it be only by sweeping one little room in it. I want 
to lead some poor stray sheep home—not home to the church. 


A Remarkable Fact. 


145 


Mr. Walton—I would not be supposed to curry favour with 
you. I never think of what they call the church. I only care 
to lead them home to the bosom of God, where alone man is 
true man. 

“ I could talk to you all night about what Lady Bernard 
has been to me since, and what she has done for me and my 
grandchildren; but I have said enough to explain how it is 
that I am in such a questionable position. I fear I have been 
guilty of much egotism, and have shown my personal feelings 
with too little reserve. But I cast myself on your mercy.” 


CHAPTER XXL 

A REMARKABLE FACT. 

A SILENCE followed. I need hardly say we had listened in¬ 
tently. During the story my father had scarcely interrupted 
the narrator. I had not spoken a word. She had throughout 
maintained a certain matter-of-fact, almost cold style, no doubt 
because she was herself the subject of her story; but we could 
read between the lines, imagine much she did not say, and 
supply colour when she gave only outline; and it moved us 
both deeply. My father sat perfectly composed, betraying his 
emotion in silence alone. For myself, I had a great lump in 
my throat, but in part from the shame which mingled with my 
admiration. The silence had not lasted more than a few 
seconds, when I yielded to a struggling impulse, rose, and 
kneeling before her, put my hands on her knees, said, “ For¬ 
give me,” and could say no more. She put her hand on my 
shoulder, whispered, “ My dear Mrs. Percivale 1 ” bent down 
her face and kissed me on the forehead. 

“ How could you help being shy of me? ” she said. " Per« 

1 . 


146 The Vica/s Daughter. 

haps I ought to have come to you and explained it all; but 1 
shrink from self-justification—at least before a fit opportunity 
makes it comparatively easy/^ 

“That is the way to give it all its force,” remarked my 
father. 

“ I suppose it may be/’ she returned. “ But I hate talking 
about myself; it is an unpleasant subject.” 

“ Most people do not find it such,” said my father. “ I 
could not honestly say that I do not enjoy talking of my own 
experiences of life.” 

“ But there are differences, you see,” she rejoined. ** My 
history looks to me such a matter of course, such a something 
I could not help, or have avoided if I would, that the telling 
of it is unpleasant, because it implies an importance which 
does not belong to it” 

“ St Paul says something of the same sort—that a necessity 
of preaching the gospel was laid upon him,” remarked my 
father; but it seemed to make no impression on Miss Clare, 
for she went on as if she had not heard him. 

“ You see, Mr. Walton, it is not in the least as if living in 
comfort I had taken notice of the misery of the poor for the 
want of such sympathy and help as I could give them, and 
had therefore gone to live amongst them that I might so help 
them: it is quite different from that. If I had done so, I 
might be in danger of magnifying not merely my office but my¬ 
self. On the contrary, I have been trained to it in such slow 
and necessitous ways, that it would be a far greater trial to me 
to forsake my work than it has ever been to continue it.” 

My father said no more, but I knew he had his own thoughts. 
I remained kneeling, and felt for the first time as if I under¬ 
stood what had led to saint-worship. 

“ Won’t you sit, Mrs. Percivale ? ” she said, as if merely ex¬ 
postulating with me for not making myself comfortable. 

“ Have you forgiven me ? ” I asked. 

“ How can I say I have, when I never had anything to 
forgive ? ” 


A Remarkable Fact. 


H7 

“ Well then I must go unforgiven, for I cannot forgive my- 
Belf,’’ I said. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Percivale, if you think how the world is flooded 
with forgiveness, you will just dip in your cup and take what 
you want.” 

I felt that I was making too much even of my own shame, 
rose humbled, and took my former seat 

Narration being over, and my father’s theory now permitting 
him to ask questions, he did so plentifully, bringing out many 
lights, and elucidating several obscurities. The story grew 
upon me, until the work to which Miss Clare had given her¬ 
self seemed more like that of the Son of God than any other 
I knew. For she was not helping her friends from afar, but as 
one of themselves—nor with money but with herself; she was 
not condescending to them, but finding her highest life in 
companionship with them. It seemed at least more like what 
his life must have been before he was thirty than anything else 
I could think of. I held my peace however, for I felt that to 
hint at such a thought would have greatly shocked and pained 
her. 

No doubt the narrative I have given is plainer and more 
coherent for the questions my father put; but it loses much 
from the omission of one or two parts which she gave dramati¬ 
cally, with evident enjoyment of the fun that was in them. I 
have also omitted all the interruptions which came from her 
not unfrequent reference to my father on points that came up. 
At length I ventured to remind her of something she seemed 
to have forgotten. 

“ When you were telling us. Miss Clare,” I said, “ of the 
help that came to you that dreary afternoon in the empty house, 
I think you mentioned that something which happened after¬ 
wards made it still more remarkable.” 

“ Oh, yes,” she answered; “ I forgot about that. I did not 
carry my history far enough to be reminded of it again.” 

“ Somewhere about five years ago. Lady Bernard, having 
several schemes on foot for helping such people as I was in- 

L a 


148 The Vicar's Daughter, 

terested in, asked me if it would not be nice to give an enter 
tainment to my friends, and as many of the neighbours as I 
pleased, to the number of about a hundred. She wanted to 
put the thing entirely in my hands, and it should be my 
entertainment, she claiming only the privilege of defraying ex¬ 
penses. I told her I should be delighted to convey her invita¬ 
tion, but that the entertainment must not pretend to be mine; 
which, besides that it would be a falsehood, and therefore not 
to be thought of, would perplex my friends, and drive them to 
the conclusion either that it was not mine, or that I lived 
amongst them under false appearances. She confessed the 
force of my arguments, and let me have it my own way. 

“ She had bought a large house to be a home for young 
women out of employment, and in it she proposed the enter¬ 
tainment should be given : there were a good many nice young 
women inmates at the time, who, she said, would be all willing 
to help us to wait upon our guests. The idea was carried out, 
and the thing succeeded admirably. We had music and games, 
the latter such as the children were mostly acquainted with, 
only producing more merriment and conducted with more pro¬ 
priety than were usual in the court or the street. I may just 
remark, in passing, that had these been children of the poorest 
sort, we should have had to teach them, for one of the saddest 
things is that such, in London at least, do not know how to 
play. We had tea and coffee, and biscuits in the lower rooms, 
for any who pleased, and they were to have a solid supper 
afterwards. With none of the arrangements however had I 
anything to do, for my business was to be with them, and help 
them to enjoy themselves. All went on capitally, the parents 
entering into the merriment of their children, and helping to 
keep it up. 

In one of the games, I was seated on the floor with a 
handkerchief tied over my eyes, waiting, I believe, for some 
gentle trick to be played upon me, that I might guess at the 
name of the person who played it. There was a delay—of 
only a few seconds—long enough however for a sudden return 


A Remarkalje Fact, 


149 

of that dreary November afternoon in which I sat on the floor 
too miserable even to think that I was cold and hungry. 
Strange to say it was not the picture of it that came back to 
me first, but the sound of my own voice calling aloud in the 
ringing echo of the desolate rooms that I was of no use to 
anybody, and that God had forgotten me utterly. With the 
recollection, a doubtful expectation arose which moved me to 
a scarce controllable degree. I jumped to my feet, and tore 
the bandage from my eyes. 

“ Several times during the evening I had had the odd yet 
well known feeling of the same thing having happened before; 
but I was too busy entertaining my friends to try to account 
for it: perhaps what followed may suggest the theory that in 
not a few of such cases the indistinct remembrance of the pre¬ 
vious occurrence of some portion of the circumstances may 
cast the hue of memory over the whole. As—my eyes blinded 
with the light and straining to recover themselves—I stared 
about the room, the presentiment grew almost conviction that 
it was the very room in which I had so sat in desolation and 
despair. Unable to restrain myself, I hurried into the back 
room : there was the cabinet beyond! In a few moments 
more, I was absolutely satisfied that this was indeed the house 
in which I had first found refuge. For a time I could take no 
further share in what was going on, but sat down in a corner 
and cried for joy. Some one went for Lady Bernard, who 
was superintending the arrangements for supper in the music- 
room behind. She came in alarm. I told her there was no¬ 
thing the matter but a little too much happiness, and if she 
would come into the cabinet, I would tell her all about it. 
She did so, and a few words made her a hearty sharer in my 
pleasure. She insisted that I should tell the company all 
about it, ‘ for,’ she said, * you do not know how much it may 
help some poor creature to trust in God.’ I promised I would, 
if I found I could command myself sufficiently. She left me 
alone for a little while, and after that I was able to join in the 
games again. 


150 The Vicai^s Daughter. 

At supper I found myself quite composed, and at Lady 
Bernard’s request stood up, and gave them all a little sketch 
of grannie’s history, of which sketch what had happened that 
evening was made the central point. Many of the simpler 
hearts about me received it, without question, as a divine ar¬ 
rangement for my comfort and encouragement—at least, thus 
I interpreted their looks to each other, and the remarks that 
reached my ear; but presently a man stood up—one who 
thought more than the rest of them, perhaps because he was 
blind—a man at once conceited, honest, and sceptical; and 
silence having been made for him—‘ Ladies and gentlemen,’ 
he began, as if he had been addressing a public meeting, ‘ you’ve 
all heard what grannie has said. It’s very kind of her to give 
us so much of her history. It’s a very remarkable one, / think, 
and she deserved to have it. As to what upset her this very 
night as is—and I must say for her. I’ve knowed her now for 
six years, and I never knowed her upset afore—and as to what 
upset her, all I can say is, it may or may not ha’ been what 
phylosophers call a coincydence; but, at the same time, if it 
wasn’t a coincydence, and if the Almighty had a hand in it, it 
were no more than you might expect. He would look at it in 
this light, you see, that maybe she was wrong to fancy herself 
so down on her luck as all that, but she was a good soul not- 
withstandin’, and he would let her know he hadn’t forgotten 
her. And so he set her down in that room there, wi’ her eyes 
like them here o* mine, as never was no manner o’ use to me 
—for a minute, jest to put her in mind o’ what had been, and 
what she had said there, an’ how it was all so different now. 
In my opinion, it were no wonder as she broke down, God 
bless her ! I beg leave to propose her health.’ So they drank 
my health in lemonade and ginger-beer, for we were afraid to 
give some of them stronger drink than that, and therefore had 
none. Then we had more music and singing, and a clergy¬ 
man, who knew how to be neighbour to them that had fallen 
among thieves, read a short chapter and a collect or two, and 
said a few words to them. Then grannie and her children 


A Remarkable Fact 151 

went home together, all happy, but grannie the happiest of them 
all.” 

“ Strange and beautiful! ” said my father. ** But,” he added, 
after a pause, “you must have met with many strange and 
beautiful things in such a life as yours; for it seems to me that 
such a life is open to the entrance of all simple wonders. 
Conventionality and routine and arbitrary law banish their very 
approach.” 

“ I believe,” said Miss Clare, “ that every life has its own 
private experience of the strange and beautiful. But 1 have 
sometimes thought that perhaps God took pains to bar out 
such things of the sort as we should be no better for. The 
reason why Lazarus was not allowed to visit the brothers of 
Dives, was that the repentance he would have urged would not 
have followed, and they would have been only the worse in 
consequence.” 

“ Admirably said,” remarked my father. 

Before we took our leave, I had engaged Miss Cl ire to dine 
w'th us while my father was in town. 


The Vicar's Daughter. 


iSa 


CHAPTER XXIL 

LADY BERNARD. 

When she came we had no other guest, and so had plenty ol 
talk with her. Before dinner I showed her my husband’s 
pictures, and she was especially pleased with that which hung in 
the little room off the study, which I called my boudoir— a 
very ugly word, by the way, which I am trying to give up— 
with a curtain before it. My father has described it in the 
“ Seaboard Parish : ” a pauper lies (kad, and they are bringing 
in his coffin. She said it was no wonder it had not been sold, 
notwithstanding its excellence and force; and asked if I would 
allow her to bring Lady Bernard to see it. After dinner 
Percivale had a long talk with her, and succeeded in persuading 
her to sit to him; not however before I had joined my en¬ 
treaties with his, and my father had insisted that her face was 
not her own, but belonged to all her kind. 

The very next morning she came with Lady Bernard. The 
latter said she knew my husband well by reputation, and had, 
before our marriage, asked him to her house, but had not been 
fortunate enough to possess sufficient attraction. Percivale 
was much taken with her, notwithstanding a certain coldness, 
almost sternness of manner, which was considerably repellent— 
but only for the first few moments, for when her eyes lighted 
up, the whole thing vanished. She was much pleased with 
some of his pictures, criticizing freely, and with evident under¬ 
standing. The immediate result was that she bought both the 
pauper picture and that of the dying knight. 

But I am sorry to deprive your lovely room of such treasures, 
Mrs. Percivale,” she said, with a kind smile. 

“ Of course I shall miss them,” I returned; “ but the thought 
that you have them will console me. Besides, it is good to 
have a change, and there are only too many lying in the study, 
^om which he will let me choose to supply their place.” 


Lady Bernard, 153 

“Will you let me come and see which y #u have chosen?” 
she asked. 

“ With the greatest pleasure,” I answered. 

“ And will you come and see me ? Do you think you could 
persuade your husband to bring you to dine with me ? ” 

I told her I could promise the one with more than pleasure, 
and had little doubt of being able to do the other, now that my 
husband had seen her. 

A reference to my husband’s dislike to fashionable society 
followed, and I had occasion to mention his feeling about being 
asked without me. Of the latter Lady Bernard expressed the 
warmest approval; and of the former, said that it would have 
no force in respect of her parties, for they were not at all 
fashionable. 

This was the commencement of a friendship for which we 
have much cause to thank God. Nor do we forget that it came 
through Miss Clare. 

I confess 1 felt glorious over my cousin Judy; but I would 
bide my time. Now that I am wiser and I hope a little better, 
I see that I was rather spiteful; but I thought then I was only 
jealous for my new and beautiful friend. Perhaps having 
wronged her myself I was the more ready to take vengeance on 
her wrongs from the hands of another—which was just che 
opposite feeling to that I ought to have had. 

In the mean time our intimacy with Miss Clare grew. She 
interested me in many of her schemes for helping the poor— 
some of which were for providing them with, work in hard times, 
but more, for giving them an interest in life itself, without 
which, she said, no one would begin to inquire into its relations 
and duties. One of her positive convictions was that you ought 
not to give them anything they ought to provide for themselves, 
such as food or clothing or shelter. In such circumstances as 
rendered it impossible for them to do so, the ought was 
in abeyance. But she heartily approved of making them an 
occasional present of something they could not be expected to 
procuT'? for themselves—flowers, for instance. “You would 


154 TJu Vicat^s DaughUr. 

not imagine,*’ I have heard her say, “how they delight in 
flowers. All the finer instincts of their being are drawn to the 
surface at the sight of them. I am sure they prize and enjoy 
them far more, not merely than most people with gardens and 
greenhouses do, but far more even than they would if they 
were deprived of them. A gift of that sort can only do them 
good. But I would rather give a workman a gold watch than 
a leg of mutton. By a'present you mean a compliment; and 
none feel more grateful for such an acknowledgment of your 
human relation to them, than those who look up to you as their 
superior.” 

Once when she was talking thus I ventured to object, for the 
sake of hearing her further. 

“ But,” I said, “ sometimes the most precious thing you can 
give a man is just that compassion which you seem to think 
destroys the value of a gift.” 

“ A^Tien compassion itself is precious to a man,” she answered, 
“ it must be because he loves you, and believes you love him. 
\Vhen that is the case, you may give him an}thing you like, 
and it will do neither you nor him harm. But the man of in¬ 
dependent feeling, except he be thus your friend, will not un¬ 
likely resent your compassion, while the beggar will accept it 
chiefly as a pledge for something more to be got from you; and 
so it will tend to keep him in beggaiy.” 

“ Would you never, then, give money or any of the necessaries 
of life, except in extreme and, on the part of the receiver, un¬ 
avoidable necessity ? ” I asked. 

“ I would not,” she answered; “ but in the case where a 
man cannot help himself, the very suffering makes a way for the 
love which is more than compassion to manifest itself. In 
every other case, the true way is to provide them with work, 
which is itself a good thing, besides what they gain by it If a 
man will not work, neither should he eat. It must be work 
with an object in it, however; it must not be mere labour, such 
as digging a hole and filling it up again, of which I have heard. 
No man could help resentment at being set to such work. 


Lady Ber 7 iard, 155 

You ought to let him feel that he is giving some hing of value 
to you for the money you give to him. But I have known a 
whole district so corrupted and degraded by clerical alms-giving, 
that one of the former recipients of it declared, as spokesman 
for the rest, that threepence given was far more acceptable than 
five shillings earned.” 

A good part of the little time I could spare from my own 
family was now spent with Miss Clare in her work, through 
which it was chiefly that we became by degrees intimate with 
Lady Bernard. If ever there was a woman w’ho lived this outer 
life for the sake of others, it was she. Her inner life was, as it 
were, sufficient for herself, and found its natural outward 
expression in blessing others. She was like a fountain of living 
water that could find no vent but into the lives of her fellows. 
She had suffered more than falls to the ordinary lot of women, 
in those who were related to her most nearly, and for many 
years had looked for no personal blessing from without She 
said to me once that she could not think of anything that could 
happen to herself to make her ver>' happy now—except a loved 
grandson, who was leading a strange wild life, were to turn out 
a Harry the Fifth—a consummation which, however devoudy 
wished, was not granted her, for the young man died shortly 
after. I believe no one, not even :Miss Clare, knew half the 
munificent things she did, or what an immense proportion of 
her large income she spent upon other people. But, as she said 
herself, no one understood the worth of money better; and no 
one liked better to have the worth of it j therefore she always 
administered her charity with some view to the value of the 
probable return—with some regard, that is, to the amount of 
good likely to result to others from the aid given to one. She 
always took into consideration whether the good was likely to 
be propagated, or to die with the receiver. She confessed to 
frequent mistakes, but such, she said, was the principle upon 
which she sought to regulate that part of her stewardship. 

I wish I could ^ve a photograph of her. She was slight, 
and appeared taller than she was, being rather stately than 


IS6 The Vtcar*s Daughter, 

graceful, with a commanding forehead and still blue eyes: She 
gave at first the impression of coldness with a touch of 
haughtiness. But this was, I think, chiefly the result of her in¬ 
herited physique; for the moment her individuality appeared, 
when her being, that is, came into contact with that of another, 
all this impression vanished in the light that flashed into her 
eyes, and the smile that illumined her face. Never did woman 
of rank step more triumphantly over the barriers which the 
cumulated custom of ages has built between the classes of 
society. She laid great stress on good manners, little on what 
is called good birth ; although to the latter, in its deep and true 
sense, she attributed the greatest a priori value, as the ground of 
obligation in the possessor, and of expectation on the part of 
others. But I shall have an opportunity of showing more of 
what she thought on this subject presently, for I bethink me 
that it occupied a great part of our conversation at a certain 
little gathering, of which I am now going to give an account 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

MY SECOND DINNER-PARTY. 

For I judged that I might now give another little dinner : I 
thought that, as Percivale had been doing so well lately, he 
might afford, with his knowing brother’s help, to provide, for 
his part of the entertainment, what might be good enough to 
offer even to Mr. Morley ; and I now knew Lady Bernard suffi¬ 
ciently well to know also that she would willingly accept an in¬ 
vitation from me, and would be pleased to meet Miss Clare, 
or indeed, would more likely bring her with her. 

I proposed the dinner, and Percivale consented to it. My 
main object being the glorification of Miss Clare, who had 
more engagements of one kind and another than anybody I 


157 


My Second Dinner-Party, 

knew, I first invited her, asking her to fix her own day, a1 
some considerable remove. Next I invited Mr. and Mrs. Morleyj 
and next Lady Bernard, who went out very little. Then 1 
invited Mr. Blackstone, and last of all Roger—though I was 
almost as much interested in his meeting Miss Clare as in any¬ 
thing else connected with the gathering. For he had been 
absent from London for some time on a visit to an artist friend 
at the Hague, and had never seen Miss Clare since the evening 
on which he and I quarrelled—or rather, to be honest, I 
quarrelled with him. All accepted, and I looked forward to the 
day with some triumph. 

I had better calm the dread of my wifely reader by at once 
assuring her that I shall not harrow her feelings with any 
account of culinary blunders. The moon was in the beginning 
of her second quarter, and my cook’s brain tolerably undis¬ 
turbed. Lady Bernard offered me her cook for the occasion, 
but I convinced her that my wisdom would be to decline the 
offer, seeing such external influence would probably tend to dis¬ 
integration. I WTnt over with her every item of every dish and 
every sauce many times—without any resulting sense of 
security, I confess; but I had found that, odd as it may 
seem, she always did better the more she had to do. I be¬ 
lieve that her love of approbation, excited by the difficulty 
before her, in its turn excited her intellect, which then arose 
to meet the necessities of the case. 

Roger arrived first, then Mr. Blackstone; Lady Bernard 
brought Miss Clare; and Mr. and Mrs. Morley came last. 
There were several introductions to be gone through—a cere¬ 
mony in which Percivale, being awkward, would give me no 
assistance; whence I failed to observe how the presence of 
Miss Clare affected Mr. and Mrs. Morley; but my husband told 
me that Judy turned red, and that Mr. Morley bowed to her 
with studied politeness. I took care that Mr. Blackstone 
should take her down to dinner, which was served in the study 
as betcre. 

The conversation was broken and desultory at first, as is 


IS8 The Vicaf^s Daughter, 

generally the case at a dinner-party—and perhaps ought to be; 
but one after another began to listen to what was jassing be¬ 
tween Lady Bernard and my husband at the foot of the table, 
until by degrees every one became interested and took a greater 
or less part in the discussion. 

“ Then you do believe,” my husband was saying, ‘‘ in the 
importance of what some of the Devonshire people call 
havageV^ 

“ Allow me to ask what they mean by the word,” Lady Ber¬ 
nard returned. 

“ Birth, descent—the people you come of,” he answered. 

“ Of course I believe that descent involves very important 
considerations.” 

“No one,” interposed Mr. Morley, “can have a better right 
than your ladyship to believe that” 

“ One cannot have a better right than another to believe a 
fact, Mr. Morley,” she answered with a smile. “ It is but a fact 
that you start better or worse according to the position of your 
starting-point.” 

“ Undeniably,” said Mr. Morley. “ And for all that is feared 
from the growth of levelling notions in this country, it will be 
many generations before a profound respect for birth is eradi¬ 
cated from the feelings of the English people.” 

He drew in his chin with a jerk, and devoted himself again 
to his plate, with the air of a “ Dixi.” He was not per¬ 
mitted to eat in peace howe.ver. 

“ If you allow,” said Mr. Blackstone, “ that the feeling can 
wear out, and is wearing out, it matters little how long it 
may take to prove itself of a false, because corruptible nature,. 
No growth of notions will blot love^ honesty, kindness, out of 
the human heart.” 

“'Then,” said Lady Bernard archly, “am I to understand, 
Mr. Blackstone, that you don’t believe it of the least importance 
to come of decent people ? ” 

“Your ladyship puts it well,” said Mr. Morley, laughing 
mildly, “and with authority. The longer the descent—” 


My Second Dinner-Party. 159 

“ The more doubtful,” interrupted Lady Bernard, laughing. 
“ One can hardly have come of decent people all through, you 
know. Let us only hope, without inquiring too closely, that 
their number preponderates in our own individual cases.” 

Mr. Moiley stared for a moment, and then tried to laugh, 
but unable to determine whereabout he was in respect of the 
question, betook himself to his glass of sherry. 

Mr. Blackstone considered it the best policy in general not to 
explain any remark he had made, but to say the right thing 
better next lime instead. I suppose he believed, with another 
friend of mine, that “ when explanations become necessary, they 
become impossible,” a paradox well worth the consideration of 
those who write letters to newspapers. But Lady Bernard 
understood him well enough, and was only unwinding the clue 
of her idea. 

On the contrary, it must be a most serious fact,” he re¬ 
joined, “ to any one who like myself believes that the sins of 
the fathers are visited on the children.” 

“Mr. Blackstone,” objected Roger, “I can^t imagine you 
believing such a manifest injustice.” 

“ It has been believed in all ages by the best of people,” he 
returned. 

“ To whom possibly the injustice of it never suggested itself. 
For my part, I must either disbelieve that or disbelieve in a 
God.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, don't you see it is a fact ? Don't you 
see children born with the sins of their parents nestling in 
their very bodies? You see on which horn of your own 
dilemma you would impale yourself.” 

“ Wouldn’t you rather not believe in a God than believe in 
an unjust one ? ” 

“An unjust god,” said Mr. Blackstone, with the honest 
evasion of one who will not answer an awful question hastily, 
“ must be a false god, that is no God. Therefore I presume 
there is some higher truth involved in every fact that appears 
unjust, Uie perception of which would nullify the appearance.” 


\6o The Vicar's Daughter, 

" I see none in the present case,” said Roger. 

“ I will go farther than assert the mere opposite,” retamed 
Mr. Blackstone. “ I will assert that it is an honour to us to 
have the sins of our fathers laid upon us. For thus it is given 
into our power to put a stop to them, so that they shall 
descend no further. If I thought my father had committed any 
sins for which I might suffer, I should be unspeakably glad to 
suffer for them, and so have the privilege of taking a share in 
his burden, and some of the weight of it off his mind. You see 
the whole idea is that of a family, in which we are so grandly 
bound together, that we must suffer with and for each other. 
Destroy this consequence, and you destroy the lovely idea itself, 
with all its thousandfold results of loveliness.” 

“ You anticipate what I was going to say, Mr. Blackstone,” 
said Lady Bernard. “ I would differ from you only in one 
thing. The chain of descent is linked after such a complicated 
pattern, that the non-conducting condition of one link, or of 
many links even, cannot break the transmission of qualities. I 
may inherit from my great-great-grandfather or mother, or 
some one ever so much farther back. That which was active 
wrong in some one or other of my ancestors, may appear in me 
as an impulse to that same wrong, which of course I have to 
overcome ; and if I succeed, then it is so far checked. But it 
may have passed, or may yet pass to others of his descendants, 
who have, or will have to do the same—for who knows how 
many generations to come—before it shall cease. Married 
people, you see, Mrs. Percivale, have an awful responsibility 
in regard of the future of the world. You cannot tell to how 
many millions you may transmit your failures or your vic¬ 
tories.” 

“ If I understand you right. Lady Bernard,” said Roger, “ it 
is the personal character of your ancestors, and not their social 
position, you regard as of importance.” 

“ It was of their personal character alone I was thinking. But 
of course I do not pretend to believe that there are not many 
valuable gifts more likely to show themselves in what is called 


My Second Dinner-Party, i6l 

a long descent, for doubtless a continuity of education does 
much to develope the race.” 

“ But if it is personal character you chiefly regard, we may 
say we are all equally far descended,” I remarked; ** for we 
have each had about the same number of ancestors with a 
character of some sort or other, whose faults and virtues have 
to do with ours, and for both of which we are, according to 
Mr. Blackstone, in a most real and important sense account¬ 
able.” 

“ Certainly,” returned Lady Bernard; “ and it is impossible 
lo say in whose descent the good, or the bad, may predominate. 
I cannot tell, for instance, how much of the property I inherit 
has been honestly come by, or is the spoil of rapacity and 
injustice.” 

“ You are doing the best you can to atone for such a possible 
fact, then, by its redistribution,” said my husband. 

“ I confess,” she answered, “ the doubt has had some share in 
determining my feeling with regard to the management of my 
property. I have no right to throw up my stewardship, for 
that was none of my seeking, and I do not know any one who 
has a better claim to it; but I count it only a stewardship. I 
am not at liberty to throw my orchard open, for that would 
result not only in its destruction, but in a renewal of the fight of 
centuries ago for its possession; but I will try to distribute my 
apples properly. That is, I have not the same right to give 
away foolishly that I have to keep wisely.” 

“ Then,” resumed Roger, who had evidently been pondering 
what Lady Bernard had previously said, “ you would consider 
what is called kleptomania as the impulse to steal transmitted 
by a thief-ancestor ? ” 

“ Nothing seems to me more likely. I know a nobleman 
w'hose servant has to search his pockets for spoons or forks 
every night as soon as he is in bed.” 

“ I should find it very hard to define the difference between 
that and stealing,” said Miss Clare, now first taking a part in 
the conversation. ** I have sometimes wondered whether 


M 


162 The Vicar's Daughter. 

kleptomania was not merely the fashionable name for steal¬ 
ing.” 

“ The distinction is a difficult one, and no doubt the word is 
occasionally misapplied. But I think there is a difference. The 
nobleman to whom I referred, makes no objection to being 
thus deprived of his booty, which, for one thing, appears to show 
that the temptation is intermittent, and partakes at least of the 
character of a disease.” 

“ But are there not diseases which are only so much the worse 
diseases that they are not intermittent? ” said Miss Clare. “ Is 
it not hard that the privileges of kleptomania should be confined 
to the rich ? You never hear the word applied to a poor child, 
even if his father was, in habit and repute, a thief. Surely when 
hunger and cold aggravate the attacks of inherited temptation, 
they cannot at the same time aggravate the culpability of yield¬ 
ing to them ? ” 

“ On the contrary,” said Roger, “ one would naturally sup¬ 
pose they added immeasurable excuse.” 

“ Only,” said Mr. Blackstone, “ there comes in our ignorance 
and consequent inability to judge. The very fact of the 
presence of motives of a most powerful kind renders it impos¬ 
sible to be certain of the presence of the disease; whereas other 
motives being apparently absent, we presume disease as the 
readiest way of accounting for the propensity. I do not there¬ 
fore think it is the only way. I believe there are cases in which 
it comes of pure greed, and is of the same kind as any other 
injustice the capability of exercising which is more generally dis¬ 
tributed. Why should a thief be unknown in a class, a propor¬ 
tion of the members of which is capable of wrong, chicanery, 
oppression, indeed any form of absolute selfishness ? ” 

“ At all events,” said Lady Bernard, “ so long as we do our 
best to help them to grow better, we cannot make too much 
allowance for such as have not only been born with evil im¬ 
pulses, but have had every animal necessity to urge them in the 
same direction; while, on the other hand, they have not had 
one of those restraining influences which a good home and 


My Second Dinner-Party, 163 

education would have afforded. Such must, so far as de relop* 
ment goes, be but a little above the beasts.” 

“ You open a very difficult question,” said Mr. Morley: 
“ what are we to do with them ? Supposing they are wild beasts, 
we can’t shoot them, though that would, no doubt, be the 
readiest way to put an end to the breed.” 

“ Even that would not suffice,” said Lady Bernard. “ There 
would always be a deposit from the higher classes sufficient to 
keep up the breed. But, Mr. Morley, I did not say beasts; 
I only said beasts. There is a great difference between a tiger 
and a sheep-dog.” 

“ There is nearly as much between a Seven-Dials-rough and 
a sheep-dog.” 

“ In moral attainment, I grant you,” said Mr. Blackstone; 
“ but in moral capacity, no. Besides, you must remember, both 
what a descent the sheep-dog has, and what pains have been 
taken with his individual education, as well as that of his 
ancestors.” 

“ Granted all that,” said Mr. Morley, “there the fact remains. 
For my part, I confess I don’t see what is to be done. The 
class to which you refer goes on increasing. There’s this 
garrotting now. I spent a winter at Algiers lately, and found 
even the suburbs of that city immeasurably safer than any part 
of London is now, to judge from the police-reports. Yet I am 
accused of inhumanity and selfishness if I decline to write a 
cheque for every shabby fellow who calls upon me pretending 
to be a clergyman, and to represent this or that charity in the 
East-end I ” 

“ Things are bad enough in the West-end, within a few 
hundred yards of Portland Place, for instance,” murmured 
Miss Clare. 

“ It seems to me highly unreasonable,” Mr. Morley went on 
“ Why should I spend my money to perpetuate such a con¬ 
dition of things ? ” 

“ That would in all likelihood be the tendency of youi 
subscription,” said Mr. Blackstone. 

M a 


164 The Vicar's Daughter, 

** Then why should I ? ” repeated Mr. Morley with a smile 
of triumph. 

“ But,” said Miss Clare, in an apologetic tone, “ it seems to 
me you make a mistake in regarding the poor as if their poverty 
were the only distinction by which they could be classified. 
The poor are not all thieves and garrotters, nor even all un¬ 
thankful and unholy. There are just as strong, and as delicate 
distinctions too, in that stratum of social existence as in the 
upper strata. I should imagine Mr. Morley knows a few, be¬ 
longing to the same social grade with himself, with whom 
however he would be sorry to be on any terms of intimacy ” 

“Nota few,” responded Mr. Morley, with a righteous frown. 

“ Then I, who know the poor as well at least as you can 
know the rich, having lived amongst them almost from childhood, 
assert that I am acquainted with not a few who, in all the 
essentials of human life and character, would be an honour to 
any circle.” 

“ I should be sorry to seem to imply that there may not be 
very worthy people amongst them, Miss Clare; but it is not 
such who draw our attention to the class.” 

“ Not such who force themselves upon your attention cer¬ 
tainly,” said Miss Clare; “ but the existence of such may be 
an additional reason for bestowing some attention on the class 
to which they belong. Is there not such a mighty fact as the 
body of Christ ? Is there no connexion between the head and 
the feet ? ” 

“ I had not the slightest purpose of disputing the matter with 
you. Miss Clare,” said Mr. Morley—I thought rudely, for who 
would use the word disputmg at a dinner-table ?—“ On the 
contrary, being a practical man, I want to know what is to be 
done. It is doubtless a great misfortune to the community 
that there should be such sinks in our cities, but who is to 
blame for it ?—that is the question.” 

“ Every man who says : Am I my brother’s keeper? Why, 
just consider, Mr. Morley : suppose in a family there were one 
less gifted than the others, and that in consequence thev all 


My Second Dinner-Party, i 6 $ 

withdrew from him, and took no interest in his affairs : what 
would become of him ? Must he not sink ? ” 

** Difference of rank is a divine appointment—you must allow 
that. If there were not a variety of grades, the social machine 
would soon come to a stand-still.” 

‘‘ A strong argument for taking care of the smallest wheel, 
for all the parts are interdependent. That there should be 
different classes is undoubtedly a divine intention, and not to 
be turned aside. But suppose the less-gifted boy is fit for 
some manual labour; suppose he takes to carpentering, and 
works well, and keeps the house tidy, and everything in good 
repair, while his brothers pursue their studies and prepare for 
professions beyond his reach: is the inferior boy degraded by 
doing the best he can ? Is there any reason in the nature of 
things why he should sink? But he will most likely sink, 
sooner or later, if his brothers take no interest in his work, and 
treat him as a being of nature inferior to their own.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Morley, but is he not on 
the very supposition inferior to them ? ” 

“ Intellectually, yes; morally, no; for he is doing his work, 
possibly better than they, and therefore taking a higher place 
in the eternal scale. But granting all kinds of inferiority, his 
nature remains the same with their own, and the question is 
whether they treat him as one to be helped up or one to be 
kept dowm ; as one unworthy of sympathy or one to be honoured 
for filling his part: in a word, as one belonging to them or one 
whom they put up with only because his work is necessary to 
them.” 

What do you mean by being ‘helped up’?” asked Mr. 
Morley. 

“ I do not mean helped out of his trade; but helped to make 
the best of it and of the intellect that finds its development 
in that way.” 

“Very good. But yet I don’t see how you apply your 
supposition.” 

“ For an instance of application then:—how many re* 


i66 


The Vicai^s Daught^* 

spectable people know or care a jot about their servants* 
except as creatures necessary to their comfort ? 

Well, Miss Clare,” said Judy, addressing her for the first 
time, “ if you had had the half to do with servants I have had, 
you would alter your opinion of them.” 

“I have expressed no opinion,” returned Miss Clare. ** I 
have only said that masters and mistresses know and care next 
to nothing about them.” 

** They are a very ungrateful class, do what you will for them.” 
am afraid they are at present growing more and more 
corrupt as a class,” rejoined Miss Clare; “ but gratitude is a 
high virtue, therefore in any case I don’t see how you could 
look for much of it from the common sort of them. And while 
some mistresses do not get so much of it as they deserve, I 
fear most mistresses expect far more of it than they have any 
right to.” 

“ You canH get them to speak the truth.” 

“ That I am afraid is a fact.” 

** I have never known one on whose word I could depend,” 
ed Judy. 

“ My father says he ^as known one,” I interjected. 

sad confirmation of Mrs. Morley,” said Miss Clare. 
“ But for my part I know very few persons in any rank on 
whose representation of things I could absolutely depend. 
Truth is the highest virtue, and seldom grows wild. It is diffi¬ 
cult to speak the truth, and those who have tried it longest best 
know how difficult it is. Servants need to be taught that as 
well as everybody else.” 

“ There is nothing they resent so much as being taught,” 
said Judy. 

“ Perhaps; they are very far from docile 5 and I believe it 
is of little use to attempt giving them direct lessons.” 

" How then are you to teach them ? ” 

By making it very plain to them, but without calling their 
attention to it, that speak the truth. In the course of a few 
years they may come to tell a lie or two the less for that” 


My Second Dinner-Party. 167 

“ No a very hopeful prospect,” said Judy. 

“ Not a very rapid improvement,” said her husband. 

** I look for no rapid improvement so early in a history as 
the supposition implies,” said Miss Clare. 

“ But would you not tell them how wicked it is ? ” I asked. 

“ They know already that it is wicked to tell lies ; but they 
do not feel that they are wicked in making the assertions they 
do. The less said about the abstract truth, and the more shown 
of practical truth, the better for those whom any one would 
teach to forsake lying. So at least it appears to me. I de¬ 
spair of teaching others except by learning myself.” 

“ If you do no more than that you will hardly produce an 
appreciable effect in a lifetime,” said Mr. Morley. 

‘‘ Why should it be appreciated ? ” rejoined Miss Clare. 

“ I should have said on the contrary,” interposed Mr. Black- 
stone, addressing Mr. Morley, “ —if you do less—for more you 
cannot do—^you will produce no effect whatever.” 

“ We have no right to make it a condition of our obedience 
that we shall see its reflex in the obedience of others,” said 
Miss Clare. “ We have to pull out the beam, not the mote.” 

“Are you not then to pull the mote out of your brother’s 
eye ? ” said Judy. 

“ In no case, and on no pretence, until you have pulled the 
beam out of your own eye,” said Mr. Blackstone—“ which I 
fancy will make the duty of finding fault with one’s neighbour a 
rare one, for who will venture to say he has qualified himself 
for the task ? ” 

It was no wonder that a silence followed upon this; for 
the talk had got to be very serious for a dinner-table. Lady 
Bernard was the first to speak. It was easier to take up the 
dropped thread of the conversation than to begin a new reel. 

“ It cannot be denied,” she said, “ whoever may be to blame 
for it, that the separation between the rich and the poor has 
either been greatly widened of late, or, which involves the 
same practical necessity, we have become more aware of 
the breadth and depth of a gulf which, however it may dis- 


i68 


The Vicat's Daughter^ 

tinguish their circumstances, ought not to divide them from 
each other. Certainly the rich withdraw themselves from the 
poor. Instead, for instance, of helping them to bear their 
burdens, they leave the still struggling poor of whole parishes 
to sink into hopeless want, under the weight of those who have 
already sunk beyond recovery. I am not sure that to shoot 
them would not involve less injustice. At all events he that 
hates his brother is a murderer.” 

But there is no question of hating here,” objected Mr. 
Morley. 

I am not certain that absolute indifference to one’s neigh¬ 
bour is not as bad. It came pretty nearly to the same thing in 
the case of the priest and the Levite, who passed by on the 
other side,” said Mr. Blackstone. 

“ Still,” said Mr. Morley, in all the self-importance of one 
who prided himself on the practical, ‘‘ I do not see that Miss 
Clare has proposed any remedy for the state of things con¬ 
cerning the evil of which we are all agreed. What is to be 
done ? What can 1 do now ? Come, Miss Clare.” 

Miss Clare was silent 

“Marion, my child,” said Lady Bernard, turning to her, 
“ will you answer Mr. Morley ? ” 

“ Not certainly as to what he can do; that question I dare 
not undertake to answer. I can only speak of what principles 
I may seem to have discovered. But until a man begins to 
behave to those with whom he comes into personal contact as 
partakers of the same nature, to recognize, for instance, between 
himself and his tradespeople a bond superior to that of supply 
and demand, I cannot imagine how he is to do anything to¬ 
wards the drawing together of the edges of the gaping wound 
in the social body.” 

“ But,” persisted Mr. Morley, who I began to think showed 
some real desire to come at a practical conclusion, “ suppose a 
man finds himself incapable of that sort of thing—for it seems 
to me to want some rare qualification or other to be able to 
converse with an uneducated person —” 


My Second Dinner-Party, 169 

“ There are many such, especially amongst those who follow 
handicrafts,” interposed Mr. Blackstone, “who think a great 
deal more than most of the so -called educated. There is a trues 
education to be got in the pursuit of a handicraft, than in the 
life of a mere scholar. But I beg your pardon, Mr. Morley.” 

“Suppose,” resumed Mr. Morley, accepting the apology 
without disclaimer,—“ Suppose I find I can do nothing of that 
sort, is there nothing of any sort I can do ? ” 

“ Nothing of the best sort, I firmly believe,” answered Miss 
Clare, “ for the genuine recognition of the human relationship 
can alone give value to whatever else you may do, and indeed 
can alone guide you to what ought to be done. I had a rather 
painful illustration of this the other day. A gentleman of 
wealth and position offered me the use of his grounds for some 
of my poor friends whom I wanted to take out for a half-holiday. 
In the neighbourhood of London, that is a great boon. But, 
unfortunately, whether from his mistake or mine, I was left with 
the impression that he would provide some little entertainment 
for them ; I am certain that at least milk was mentioned. It was 
a lovely day; everything looked beautiful; and although they 
were in no great spirits, poor things, no doubt the shade and 
the grass and the green trees wrought some good in them. 
Unhappily, two of the men had got drunk on the way, and, 
fearful of giving offence, I had to take them back to the station 
— for their poor helpless wives could only cry—and send them 
home by train. I should have done better to risk the offence 
and take them into the grounds, where they might soon have 
slept it off under a tree. I had some distance to go, and some 
difficulty in getting them along, and when I got back I found 
things in an unhappy condition, for nothing had been given 
them to eat or drink—indeed, no attention had been paid them 
whatever. There was company at dinner in the house, and I 
could not find any one with authority. I hurried into the 
neighbouring village, and bought the contents of two bakers’ 
shops, with which I returned in time t.^ give each a piece of 
bread before the company came out tc look at them. A gaily 


I/O The Vicars Daughter, 

dressed group, they stood by themselves languidly regarding the 
equally languid but rather indignant groups of ill-clad and hungry 
men and women upon the lawn. They made no attempt to 
mingle with them, or arrive at a notion of what was moving in 
any of their minds. The nearest approach to communion I 
saw was a poke or two given to a child with the point of a 
parasol. Were my poor friends likely to return to their dingy 
homes with any great feeling of regard for the givers of such 
cold welcome ? ” 

“ But that was an exceptional case,” said Mr. Morley. 

** Chiefly in this,” returned Miss Clare, “ that it was a case 
at all—that they were thus presented with a little more room 
on the face of the earth for a few hours.” 

But you think the fresh air may have done them good.” 

“Yes; but we were speaking, I thought, of what might 
ser\'e towards the filling up of the gulf between the classes.” 

“ Well, will not all kindness shown to the poor by persons in 
a superior station, tend in that direction ? ” 

“ I maintain that you can do nothing for them in the way of 
kindness that shall not result in more harm than good, except 
you do it from and with genuine charity of soul—with some of 
that love, in short, which is the heart of religion. Except what 
is done for them is so done as to draw out their trust and affec¬ 
tion, and so raise them consciously in the human scale, it can 
only tend either to hurt their feelings and generate indignation, 
or to encourage fawning and beggary. But —^ 

“ I am entirely of your mind,” said Mr. Blackstone. “ But 
do go on.” 

“ I was going to add,” said Miss Clare, “ that while no other 
charity than this can touch the sore, a good deal might yet be 
effected by bare justice. It seems to me high time that we 
dropped talking about charity, and took up the cry of justice. 
There now is a ground on which a man of your influence, Mr. 
Morley, might do much.” 

“ 1 don’t know what you. mean, Mi?^ Clare. So long as I 


My Second Dinner-Party^ 171 

pay the market value for the labour I employ, I do not see 
how more can be demanded of me—as a right, that is.” 

“ We will not enter on that question, Marion, if you please,” 
said Lady Bernard. 

Miss Clare nodded and went on. 

Is it just in the nation,” she said, “ to abandon those who 
can do nothing to help themselves, to be preyed upon by bad 
landlords, railway-companies, and dishonest tradespeople with 
their false weights, balances, and measures, and adulterations to 
boot—from all of whom their more wealthy brethren are com¬ 
paratively safe ? Does not a nation exist for the protection of 
its parts ? Have these no claims on the nation ? Would you 
call it just in a family to abandon its less gifted to any moral or 
physical spoiler who might be bred within it? To say a citizen 
must take care of himself may be just where he can take care of 
himself, but cannot be just where that is impossible. A thousand 
causes, originating mainly in the neglect of their neighbours, 
have combined to sink the poor into a state of moral paralysis: 
are we to say the paralyzed may be run over in our streets with 
impunity? Musi they take care of themselves ? Have we not 
to awake them to the very sense that life is worth caring for ? 
I cannot but feel that the bond between such a neglected 
class and any nation i)« which it is to be found, is very little 
stronger than, if indeed as strong as, that between slaves and 
their masters. Who could preach to them their duty to the 
nation, except on grounds which such a nation acknowledges 
only with the lips ? ” 

“You have to prove, Miss Clare,” said Mr. Morley, in a 
tone that seemed intended to imply that he was not in the least 
affected by mistimed eloquence, “ that the relation is that of 
a family.” 

“ I believe,” she returned, “ that it is closer than the mere 
human relation of the parts of any family. But, at all events, 
until we are their friends it is worse than useless to pretend to 
be such, and until they feel that we are their friends it is 


1/2 TIu Vicar's Daughter, 

worse than useless to talk to them about God and religion. 
They will none of it from our lips.” 

“ Will they from any lips ? Are they not already too far 
sunk towards the brutes to be capable of receiving any such 
rousing influence ? ” suggested Mr. Blackstone with a smile, 
evidently wishing to draw Miss Clare out yet further. 

“ You turn me aside, Mr. Blackstone. I wanted to urge 
Mr. Morley to go into parliament as spiritual member for the 
poor of our large towns. Besides, I know you don’t think as 
your question would imply. As far as my experience guides 
me, I am bound to believe that there is a spot of soil in every 
heart sufficient for the growth of a gospel seed. And I believe, 
moreover, that not only is he a fellow-worker with God who 

sows that seed, but that he also is one who opens a way for 

that seed to enter the soil. If such preparation were not 
necessary, the Saviour would have come the moment Adam and 
Fve fell, and would have required no Baptist to precede him.” 

A good deal followed which I would gladly record, enabled 

as I now am to assist my memory by a more thorough 

acquaintance with the views of Miss Clare. But I fear I have 
ahead)- g ven too much conversation at once. 


The End of the Evenings 


m 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE END OF THE EVENINa 

What specially delighted me during the evening was the marked 
attention, and the serious look in the eyes, with which Roger 
listened. It was not often that he did look serious. He pre¬ 
ferred, if possible, to get a joke out of a thing; but when he 
did enter into an argument he was always fair. Although 
prone to take the side of objection to any religious remark, 
he yet never said anything against religion itself. But his prin¬ 
ciples and indeed his nature seemed as yet in a state of solution— 
uncrystallized, as my father would say. Mr. Morley, on the 
other hand, seemed an insoluble mass, incapable of receiving 
impressions from other minds. Any suggestion of his own 
mind as to a course of action, or a mode of thinking, had a 
good chance of being without 4 uestion regarded as reasonable 
and right: he was more than ordinarily prejudiced in his own 
favour. The day after they thus met at our house. Miss Clare 
had a letter from him, in which he took the high hand with her, 
rebuking her solemnly for her presumption in saying, as he 
represented it, that no good could be done except after the 
fashion she laid down, and assuring her that she would thus 
alienate the most valuable assistance from any scheme she 
might cherish for the amelioration of the condition of the lower 
classes. It ended with the offer of a yearly subscription of five 
pounds to any project of the wisdom of which she would take 
the trouble to convince him. She replied thanking him both 
for his advice and his offer, but saying that, as she had no 
scheme on foot requiring such assistance, she could not at 
present accept the latter; should, however, anything show itself 
for which that sort of help was desirable, she would take the 
liberty of reminding him of it. 

When the ladies rose, Judy took me aside, and said,— 


174 


The Vicai^s Daughter, 

"What does it all mean, Wynnie ?** 

"Just what you hear,’* I answered. 

"You asked us, to have a triumph over me, you naughty 
thing! ” 

" Well—^partly—if I am to be honest; but far more to make 
you do justice to Miss Clare. You being my cousin, she had a 
right to that at my hands.” 

" Does Lady Bernard know as much about her as she 
seems ? ” 

" She knows everything about her, and visits her too in her 
very questionable abode. You see, Judy, a report may be a 
fact, and yet be untrue.” 

" I’m not going to be lectured by a chit like you. But I 
should like to have a little talk with Miss Clare.” 

" I will make you an opportunity.” 

I did so, and could not help overhearing a very pretty 
apology; to which Miss Clare replied, that she feared she only 
was to blame, inasmuch as she ought to have explained the 
peculiarity of her circumstances before accepting the engagement. 
At the time it had not appeared to her necessary, she said; 
but now she would make a point of explaining before she 
accepted any fresh duty of the kind, for she saw it would be 
fairer to both parties. It was no wonder such an answer should 
entirely disarm cousin Judy, who forthwith begged she would, 
if she had no objection, resume her lessons with the children 
at the commencement of the next quarter. 

" But I understand from Mrs. Percivale,” objected Miss 
Clare, " that the office is filled to your thorough satisfaction.” 

" Yes; the lady I have is an excellent teacher; but the en¬ 
gagement was only tor a quarter.” 

" If you have no other reason for parting with her, I could 
not think of stepping into her place. It would be a great 
disappointment to her, and my want of openness with you would 
be the cause of it. If you should part with her for any other 
reason, I should be very glad to serve you again.” 

Judy tried to argue with her, but Miss Clare was immovable. 


The End of the Evening, 175 

" Will you let me come and see you then ? ^ said Judy. 

“ With all my heart,” she answered. “ You had better come 
with Mrs. Percivale, though, for it would not be easy for you to 
find the place.” 

We went up to the drawing-room to tea, passing through the 
study, and taking the gentlemen with us. Miss Clare played to 
us, and sang several songs—the last a ballad of SchillePs, The 
Pilgrim, setting forth the constant striving of the soul after 
something of which it never lays hold. The last verse of it I 
managed to remember. It was this;— 

Thither ah I no footpath bendeth; 

Ah! the heaven above, so clear, 

Never, earth to touch, descendeth ; 

And the There is never Here I 

“ That is a beautiful song, and beautifully sung,” said Mr. 
Blackstone; “ but I am a little surprised at your choosing to 
sing it, for you cannot call it a Christian song.” 

“ Don’t you find St. Paul saying something very like it again 
and again ? ” Miss Clare returned with a smile, as if she perfectly 
knew what he objected to. “ You find him striving, journeying, 
pressing on, reaching out to lay hold, but never having attained 
—ever conscious of failure.” 

“ That is true; but there is this huge difference—that St 
Paul expects to attain—is confident of one day attaining; 
while Schiller, in that lyric, at least, seems—I only say seems 
—hopeless of any satisfaction ; Das Dort ist niemals HierP 

“ It may have been only a mood,” said Miss Clare. “St 
Paul had his moods also, from which he had to rouse himself 
to fresh faith and hope and effort” 

“ But St Paul writes only in his hopeful moods. Such 
alone he counts worthy of sharing with his fellows. If there is 
no hope, why, upon any theory, take the trouble to say so ? 
It is pure weakness to desire sympathy in hopelessness. Hope 
alone justifies as well as excites either utterance or effort” 

“ I admit all you say, Mr. Blackstone; and yet I think such 


iy 6 The Vicar's Daughter, 

a poem invaluable; for is not Schiller therein the mouth <rf the 
whole creation groaning and travailing and inarticulately crying 
out for the sonship?” 

“ Unconsciously then. He does not know what he wants.” 

Apparently not. Neither does the creation. Neither do 
we. We do know it is oneness with God we want, but of what 
that means we have only vague though glowing hints.” 

I saw Mr. Morley scratch his left ear like a young calf, only 
more impatiently. 

“ But,” Miss Clare went on, “ is it not invaluable as the con¬ 
fession of one of the noblest of spirits that he had found neither 
repose nor sense of attainment ? ” 

“ But,” said Roger, “ did you ever know any one of those 
you call Christians who professed to have reached satisfaction; 
or if so, whose life would justify you in believing him ? ” 

“ I have never known a satisfied Christian, I confess,” 
^'answered Miss Clare. “ Indeed, I should take satisfaction as 
a poor voucher for Christianity. But I have known several 
' contented Christians. I might in respect of one or two of 
them use a stronger word—certainly not satisfied. I believe 
there is a grand, essential unsatisfaction—I do not mean dis- 

• satisfaction—which adds the delight of expectation to the peace 
of attainment; and that, I presume, is the very consciousness 
of heaven. But where faith may not have produced even con- 

• tentment, it will yet sustain hope—which, if we may judge 
' from the ballad, no mere aspiration can. We must believe in 

a living ideal before we can have a tireless heart—an ideal 
which draws our poor vague ideal to itself—to fill it full and 
make it alive.” 

I should have been amazed to hear Miss Clare talk like this, 
had I not often heard my father say that aspiration and 
^ obedience were the two mightiest forces for development. 
Her own needs and her own deeds had been her tutors ; and 
the light by which she had read their lessons was the candle of 
the Lord within her. 

When my husband would have put her into Lady Bemard’fl 


The End of the Evening. 177 

carriage as they were leaving, she said she should prefer 
walking home; and as Lady Bernard did not press her to the 
contrary, Percivale could not remonstrate. 

“I am sorry I cannot walk with you. Miss Clare,” he said. 
“ I must not leave my duties, but—” 

“There’s not the slightest occasion,” she interrupted. “I 
know every yard of the way. Good-night.” 

The carriage drove off in one direction, and Miss Clare 
tripped lightly along in the other. Percivale darted into the 
house and told Roger, who snatched up his hat, and bounded 
after her. Already she was out of sight, but he, following 
light-footed, overtook her in the crescent. It was however only 
after persistent entreaty that he prevailed on her to allow him 
to accompany her. 

“ You do not know, Mr. Roger,” she said pleasantly, “ what 
you may be exposing yourself to, in going with me. I may 
have to do something you wouldn’t like to have a share in,” 

“I shall be only too glad to have the humblest share in 
anything you draw me into,” said Roger. 

As it fell out, they had not gone far before they came upon 
. a little crowd, chiefly of boys who ought to have been in bed 
long before, gathered about a man and woman. The man 
was forcing his company on a woman who was evidently 
annoyed that she could not get rid of him. 

“ Is he your husband ? ” asked Miss Clare, making her way 
through the crowd. 

“ No, miss,” the woman answered. “ I never saw him afore. 
I’m only just come in from the country.” 

She looked more angry than frightened. Roger said her 
black eyes flashed dangerously, and she felt about the bosom of 
her dress —for a knife, he was certain. 

“ You leave her alone,” he said to the man, getting between 
him and her. 

“Mind your own business,” returned the man in a voice 
that showed he was drunk. 

For a moment Roger was undecided what to do, for he feared 

N 


i;8 The Vicat^s Daughter^ 

involving Miss Clare in a row^ as he called it. But when the 
fellow, pushing suddenly past him, laid his hand on Miss Clare 
and shoved her away, he gave him a blow that sent him 
staggering into the street; whereupon, to his astonishment, 
Miss Clare, leaving the woman, followed the man, and as soon 
as he had recovered his equilibrium, laid her hand on his arm 
and spoke to him, but in a voice so low and gentle that Roger 
who had followed her could not hear a word she said. For a 
moment or two the man seemed to try to listen, but his condition 
was too much for him, and turning from her he began again to 
follow the woman who was now walking wearily away. Roger 
again interposed. 

“Don’t strike him, Mr. Roger,” cried Miss Clare; “he’s 
too drunk for that. But keep him back if you can, while I 
take the woman away. If I see a policeman, I will send him.” 

The man heard her last words, and they roused him to fury. 
He rushed at Roger, who, implicitly obedient, only dodged to 
let him pass and again confronted him, engaging his attention 
until help arrived. He was however by this time so fierce and 
violent that Roger felt bound to assist the policeman. 

As soon as the man was locked up, he went to Lime Court 
The moon was shining, and the narrow passage lay bright 
beneath her. Along the street people were going and coming, 
though it was past midnight, but the court was very still He 
walked into it as far as the spot where we had together seen 
Miss Clare. The door at which she had entered was open, 
but he knew nothing of the house or its people, and feared to 
compromise her by making inquiries. He walked several times 
up and down, somewhat anxious, but gradually persuading him¬ 
self that in all probability no further annoyance had befallen 
her ; until at last he felt able to leave the place. 

He came back to our house, where, finding his brother at 
his final pipe in the study, he told him all about their adven¬ 
ture. 


My First Terror^ 


1/9 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MY FIRST TERROR. 

One of the main discomforts in writing a book is, tV.at Jhere 
are so many ways in which everything, as it comes up, might 
be told and you can’t tell which is the best. You believe there 
must be a best way, but you might spend your life in trying to 
satisfy yourself which was that best way, and, when you came 
to the close of it, find you had done nothing— hadn’t even 
found out the way. I have always to remind myself that some¬ 
thing, even if it be far from the best thing, is better than 
nothing. Perhaps the only way to arrive at the best way is 
to make plenty of blunders, and find them out. 

This morning I had been sitting a long time with my pen in 
my hand thinking what this chapter ought to be about—that 
is, what part of my own history, or of that of my neighbours 
interwoven therewith, I ought to take up next, when my third 
child, my little Marion, aged five, came into the room, and 
said— 

“ Mamma, there’s a poor man at the door, and Jemima won’t 
give him anything.” 

“ Quite right, my dear. We must give what we can to people 
we know. We are sure then that it is not wasted.” 

“ But he’s so very poor, mamma I ” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ Poor man ! he has only three children. I heard him tell 
Jemima. He was so sorry ! And I’m very sorry too.” 

“ But don’t you know you mustn’t go to the door when any 
one is talking to Jemima? ” I said. 

“ Yes, mamma. I didn’t go to the door; I .stood in the 
hall and peeped.” 

“ But you mustn’t even stand in the hall,” I said. “ Mind 
that.” 

This was, perhaps, lather an oppressive reading of a propel 
N 2 


i8o The Vicai^s Daughter. 

enough rule ; but I had a very special reason for it. involving 
an important event in my story, which occurred about two years 
after what I have last set down. 

One morning Percivale took a holiday in order t3 give me 
one, and we went to spend it at Richmond. It was the anni¬ 
versary of our marriage, and as we wanted to enjoy it thoroughly, 
and, precious as children are, every pleasure is not enhanced 
by their company, we left ours at home—Ethel and her brother 
Roger (named after Percivale’s father), who was now nearly a 
year old, and wanted a good deal of attention. It was a lovely 
day, with just a sufficient number of passing clouds to glorify 
— that is, to do justice to—the sunshine, and a gentle breeze, 
which itself seemed to be taking a holiday, for it blew only just 
when you wanted it, and then only enough to make you think 
of that wind which, blowing where it lists, always blows where 
it is wanted. We took the train to Hammersmith; for my 
husband, having consulted the tide-table, and found that the 
river would be propitious, wished to row me from there to 
Richmond. How gay the river-side looked, with its fine broad 
landing stage, and the numberless boats ready to push off on 
the swift water, which kept growing and growing on the shingly 
shore ! Percivale, however, would hire his boat at a certain 
builder’s shed, that I might see it. That shed alone would 
have been worth coming to see—such a picture of loveliest 
gloom—as if it had been the cave where the twilight abode its 
time ! You could not tell whether to call it light or shade— 
that diffused presence of a soft elusive brown ; but is what we 
call shade anything but subdued light ? All about, above, and 
below, lay the graceful creatures of the water—moveless and 
dead here on the shore, but there—launched into their own 
elemental world and blown upon by the living wind—en¬ 
dowed at once with life and motion and quick response. 

Not having been used to boats, I felt nervous as we got into 
the long, sharp-nosed, hollow fish which Percivale made them 
shoot out on the rising tide; but the slight fear vanished, 
al.a jst the moment we were afloat, when, ignorant, as I was of 


My First Terror, i8i 

the art of rowing, I could not help seeing how perfectly Perci* 
vale was at home in it. The oars in his hands were like knit- 
ting needles in mine, so deftly, so swimmingly, so variously did 
he wield them. Only once my fear returned—when he stood 
up in the swaying thing—a mere length without breadth—to 
pull off his coat and waistcoat: but he stood steady, sat down 
gently, took his oars quietly, and the same instant we were 
shooting so fast through the rising tide that it seemed as if we 
were pulling the water up to Richmond. 

“ Wouldn’t you like to steer ? ” said my husband. “ It would 
amuse you.” 

I should like to learn,” I said, “—not that I want to be 
amused; I am too happy to care for amusement.” 

“ Take those two cords behind you, then,—one in each hand, 
sitting between them. That will do. Now, if you want me 
to go to your right, pull your right-hand cord; if you want me 
to go to your left, pull your left-hand one.” 

I made an experiment or two, and found the predicted con¬ 
sequences follow : I ran him aground, first on one bank, then 
on the other. But when I did so a third time— 

‘‘ Come ! come ! ” he said; “ this won’t do, Mrs. Percivale. 
You’re not trying your best There is such a thing as gradation 
in steering as well as in painting, or music, or anything else that 
is worth doing.” 

‘‘ I pull the right line, don’t I ? ” I said \ for I was now in a 
mood to tease him. 

« Yes—to a wrong result,” he answered. “ You must feel 
your rudder, as you would the mouth of your horse with the 
bit—and not do anything violent, except in urgent necessity.” 

I answered by turning the head of the boat right towards the 
nearer bank. 

“ I see ! ” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “ I have put a 
dangerous power into your hands. But never mind. The 
Queen may decree as she likes; but the sinews of war, you 
know—” 

I thought he meant that if I went on with my arbitrary be- 


I82 


The Vicat^s Daitg/iter, 

haviour, he would drop his oars ; and for a little while T be¬ 
haved better. Soon, however, the spirit of mischief prompting 
me, I began my tricks again: to my surprise I found that I 
had no more command over the boat than over the huge barge 
w'hich, with its great red-brown sail, was slowly ascending in 
front of us; I couldn’t turn its head an inch in the direction I 
wanted. 

" What does it mean, Percivale ? ” I cried, pulling with all 
my might, and leaning forward that I might pull the harder. 

“ What does what mean ? ” he returned coolly. 

*‘ThatI can’t move the boat.” 

Oh! It means that I have resumed the reins of govern¬ 
ment.” 

‘‘But how? I can’t understand it.” 

“ And I am wiser than to make you too wise. Education is 
not a panacea for moral evils. I quote your father, my dear.” 

And he pulled away as if nothing were the matter. 

“ Please, I like steering,” I said remonstratingly. 

“ And I like rowing.” 

“ I don’t see why the two shouldn’t go together.” 

“ Nor I. They ought. But not only does the steering depend 
on the rowing, but the rower can steer himself.” 

“ I will be a good girl, and steer properly.” 

“ Very well; steer ajvay.” 

He looked shorewards as he spoke; and then first I became 
aware that he had been watching my hands all the time. The 
boat now obeyed my lightest touch. 

How merrily the water rippled in the sun and the wind ! 
while so responsive were our feelings to the play of light and 
shade around us, that more than once when a cloud crossed us, 
I saw its shadow turn almost into sadness on the countenance 
of my companion—to vanish the next moment when the one 
sun above and the thousand mimic suns below shone out in 
universal laughter. When a steamer came in sight, or an¬ 
nounced its approach by the far-heard sound of its beating 
paddles, it brought with it a few moments of almost awful 


My First Terror. 18 3 

responsibility; but I found that the presence of danger and 
duty together, instead of making me feel flurried, composed my 
nerves, and enabled me to concentrate my whole attention on 
getting the head of the boat as nearly as possible at right angles 
with the waves from the paddles; for Percivale had told me that 
if one of any size struck us on the side, it would most probably 
capsize us. But the way to give pleasure to my readers can 
hardly be to let myself grow garrulous in the memory of an 
ancient pleasure of my own. I will say nothing more of the 
delights of that day. They were such a contrast to its close, 
that twelve months at least elapsed before I was able to look 
back upon them without a shudder; for I could not rid myself 
of the foolish feeling that our enjoyment had been somehow to 
blame for what was happening at home while we were thus 
revelling in blessed carelessness. 

When we reached our little nest, rather late in the evening, 
I found to my annoyance that the front door was open. It 
had been a fault of which I thought I had cured the cook—to 
leave it thus when she ran out to fetch anything. Percivale 
went down to the study, and I walked into the drawing-room, 
about to ring the bell in anger. There, to my surprise and 
further annoyance, I found Sarah, seated on the sofa with her 
head in her hands, and little Roger wide awake on the floor. 

“ What does this mean ? ” I cried. “ The front door open ! 
Master Roger still up ! and you seated in the drawing-room! ” 

“ Oh, ma’am ! ” she almost shrieked, starting up the moment 
I spoke, and, by the time I had put my angry interrogation, 
just able to gasp out—“Have you found her, ma’am?” 

“ Found whom ? ” I returned, in alarm both at the question 
and at the face of the girl; for through the dusk I now saw 
that it was very pale, and that her eyes were red with crying. 

“ Miss Ethel,” she answered, in a cry choked with a sob j 
and dropping again on the sofa, she hid her face once more 
between her hands. 

I rushed to the study door, and called Percivale; then 
returned to question the girl. I wonder now that I did nothing 


184 Vicat^s Daughter. 

outrageous, but fear kept down folly, and made me unnaturally 
calm. 

“ Sarah,” I said, as quietly as I could, while I trembled all 
over, “tell me what has happened. Where is the child?” 

“ Indeed it’s not my fault, ma’am. I was busy with Master 
Roger, and Miss Ethel was down-stairs with Jemima.” 

“ Where is she ? ” I repeated sternly. 

“ I don’t know no more than the man in the moon, ma’am.** 

“ Where’s Jemima ? ” 

“ Run out to look for her.” 

“ How long have you missed her?” 

“ An hour. Or perhaps two hours. I don’t know, my head’s 
in such a whirl. I can’t remember when I saw her last. Oh, 
ma’am ! What shall I do ? ” 

Percivale had come up, and was standing beside me. When 
I looked round, he was as pale as death \ and at the sight of 
his face, I nearly dropped on the floor. But he caught hold 
of me, and said, in a voice so dreadfully still that it frightened 
me more than anything,— 

“ Come, my love; do not give way, for we must go to the 
police at once.” Then, turning to Sarah—“ Have you searched 
the house and garden ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, sir; every hole and corner. We’ve looked under 
every bed, and into every cupboard and chest—the coal-cellar, 
the box-room—everywhere.” 

“ The bath-room ? ” I cried. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am ; the bath-room, and everywhere.” 

“ Have there been any tramps about the house since we 
left ? ” Percivale asked. 

“Not that I know of; but the nursery window looks into 
the garden, you know, sir. Jemima didn’t mention it.” 

“ Come then, my dear,” said my husband. 

He compelled me to swallow a glass of wine, and led me 
away, almost unconscious of my bodily movements, to the 
nearest cab-stand. I wondered afterwards when I recalled the 
calm gaze with which he glanced along the line, and chose 


My First Terror. 1S5 

the horse whose appearance promised the best speed. In a few 
minutes we were telling the inspector at the police-station in 
Albany Street what had happened. He took a sheet of paper, 
and asking one question after another about her age, appear- 
ance, and dress, wrote down our answers. He then called a 
man, to whom he gave the paper, with some words of direction. 

“The men are now going on their beats for the night,’* he 
said, turning again to us. “ They will all hear the description 
of the child, and some of them have orders to search.” 

“ Thank you,” said my husband. “ Which station had we 
better go to next ? ” 

“ The news will be at the farthest before you could reach 
the nearest,” he answered. “ We shall telegraph to the suburbs 
first” 

“ Then what more is there we can do ? ” asked Percivale. 

“ Nothing,” said the inspector, “ —except you find out 
whether any of the neighbours saw her, and when and where. 
It would be something to know in what direction she was going. 
—Have you any ground for suspicion ? Have you ever dis¬ 
charged a servant ? Were any tramps seen about the place ? ” 

“I know who it is ! ” I cried. “ It’s the woman that took 
Theodora ! It’s Theodora’s mother! I know it is ! ” 

Percivale explained what I meant 

“ That’s what people get, you see, when they take on them¬ 
selves other people’s business,” returned the inspector. “ That 
child ought to have been sent to the workhouse.” 

He laid his head on his hand for a moment 

“ It seems likely enough,” he added. Then after another 
pause—“ I have your address. The child shall be brought 
back to you the moment she’s found. We can’t mistake her 
after your description.” 

“ Where are you going now ? ” I said to my husband, as we 
left the station to re-enter the cab. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, “ except we go home and 
question all the shops in the neighbourhood.” 

“ Let us go to Miss Clare first,” I said. 


i86 


The Vicar's Daughter^ 

** By all means,” he answered. 

We were soon at the entrance of Lime Court 

When we turned the corner in the middle of it, we heard the 
sound of a piano. 

She’s at home ! ” I cried, with a feeble throb of satisfaction. 
The fear that she might be out had for the last few moments 
been uppermost. 

We entered the house, and ascended the stairs in haste. Not 
a creature did we meet, except a wicked-looking cat The 
top of her head was black, her forehead and face white; 
and the black and white were shaped so as to look like hair 
parted over a white forehead, which gave her green eyes a 
frightfully human look as she crouched in the corner of a 
window-sill in the light of a gas-lamp outside. But before we 
reached the top of the first stair we heard the sounds of dancing 
as well as of music. In a moment after, with our load of 
gnawing fear and helpless eagerness, we stood in the midst of 
a meiTy assembly of men women and children, who filled Miss 
Clare’s room to overflowing. Although it was only Friday night, 
they were for some reason gathered for their weekly music. 

They made a way for us, and Miss Clare left the piano and 
came to meet us, with a smile on her beautiful face. But when 
she saw our faces, hers fell. 

‘‘ What is the matter, Mrs. Percivale ? ” she asked in alarm. 

I sank on the chair from v\ hich she had risen. 

“ We’ve lost Ethel,” said my husband quietly. 

“ What do you mean ? You don’t—” 

** No, no ; she’s gone; she’s stolen. We don’t know where 
she is,” he answered with faltering voice. We’ve just been 
to the police.” 

Miss Clare turned white; but instead of making any remark, 
she called ou": to some of he^ friends whose good manners were 
making them leave the room,— 

“Don’t go, please; we want you.” Then turning to me. 
she asked, “ May I do as I think best ? ” 

“Yes, certainly,” answered my husband. 


My First Terror, 187 

" My friend, Mrs. Percivale,” she said, addressing the whole 
assembly, “ has lost her little girl.” 

A murmur of dismay and sympathy arose. 

“ What can we do to find her ? ” she went on. 

They fell to talking among themselves. The next instant, 
two men came up to us, making their way from the neighbour¬ 
hood of the door. The one was a keen-faced elderly man, with 
iron-grey whiskers and clean-shaved chin; the other was my 
first acquaintance in the neighbourhood, the young bricklayer. 
The elder addressed my husband, while the other listened with¬ 
out speaking. 

Tell us what she’s like, sir, and how she was dressed— 
though that ain’t much use. She’ll be all different by this time.” 

The words shot a keener pang to my heart than it had yet 
felt. My darling stripped of her nice clothes, and covered with 
dirty, perhaps infected garments ! But it was no time to give 
way to feeling. 

My husband repeated to the men the description he had 
given the police, loud enough for the whole room to hear; and 
the women in particular. Miss Clare told me afterwards, caught 
it up with remarkable accuracy. They would not have done so, 
she said, but that their feelings were touched. 

“ Tell them also, please, Mr. Percivale, about the child Mrs. 
Percivale’s father and mother found and brought up. That 
may have something to do with this.” 

My husband told them all the story, adding that the mother 
of the child might have found out who we were, and taken ours 
as a pledge for the recovery of her own. 

Here one of the women spoke. 

“ That dark woman you took in one night—two years ago, 
miss—she say something. I was astin’ of her .11 the mornin' 
what her trouble was, for that trouble she had on her mind was 
plain to see, and she come over something, half-way like, about 
losin’ of a child ; but whether it were dead, or strayed, or stolen, 
or what, I couldn’t tell; and no more, I believe, she wanted 
me too ” 


t88 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

Here another woman spoke. 

“ I'm 'most sure I saw her—the same woman—two days ago, 
ind no furrer off than Gower Street,” she said. “ You’re too 
good by half, miss,” she went on, “ to the likes of sich. They 
ain’t none of them respectable.” 

“ Perhaps you’ll see some good come out of it before long,” 
said Miss Clare in reply. 

The words sounded like a rebuke, for all this time I had 
hardly sent a thought upwards for help. The image of my 
child had so filled my heart that there was no room left for 
the thought of duty, or even of God. 

Miss Clare went on, still addressing the company, and her 
wx rds had a tone of authority. 

“ I will tell you what you must do,” she said. “ You must, 
ev iry one of you, run and tell everybody you know, and tell 
evfTy one to tell everybody else. You mustn’t stop to talk it 
ov(T with each other, or let those you tell it to stop to talk to 
you about it, for it is of the greatest consequence no time 
should be lost in making it as quickly and as widely known as 
possible. Go, please.” 

In a few moments the room was empty of all but ourselves. 
The rush on the stairs was tremendous for a single minute, 
and then all was still. Even the children liad rushed out to 
tell what other children they could find. 

“ What must we do next ?” said my husband. 

Miss Clare thought for a moment. 

“ I would go and tell Mr. Blackstone,” she said. “ It is a 
long way from here, but whoever has taken the child would 
not be likely to linger in the neighbourhood. It is best to try 
everything.” 

“ Right,” said my husband. “ Come, Wynnie.” 

^‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave Mrs. Percivale with me?” 
said Miss Clare. “ It is dreadfully fatiguing to go driving over 
the stones.” 

It was very kind of her; but if she had been a mother she 
would not have thought of parting me from my husband; 


My First Terror, 189 

neither would she have fancied that I could remain inactive 
so long as it was possible even to imagine I was doing some¬ 
thing ; but when I told her how I felt, she saw at once that it 
would be better for me to go. 

We set off instantly, and drove to Mr. Elackstone’s. What 
a long way it was ! Down Oxford Street and Holborn we 
rattled and jolted, and then through many narrow ways in 
which I had never been, emerging at length in a broad road, 
with many poor and a few fine old houses in it; then again 
plunging into still more shabby regions of small houses, which, 
alas ! were new and yet wretched! At length, near an open 
space, where yet not a blade of grass could grow for the tramp¬ 
ling of many feet, and for the smoke from tall chimneys, close 
by a gasometer of awful size, we found the parsonage, and Mr. 
Blackstone in his study. The moment he heard our story he 
went to the door and called his servant “ Run, Jabez,” he 
said, “ and tell the sexton to ring the church-bell. I will come 
to him directly I hear it.” 

I may just mention that Jabez and his wife, who formed the 
whole of Mr. Blackstone’s household, did not belong to his 
congregation, but were members of a small community in the 
neighbourhood calling themselves Peculiar Baptists. 

About ten minutes passed, during which little was said : 
Mr. Blackstone never seemed to have any mode of expressing 
his feelings except action, and where that was impossible they 
took hardly any recognizable shape. When the first boom of 
the big bell filled the little study in which we sat, I gave a cry, 
and jumped up from my chair: it sounded in my ears like 
the knell of my lost baby, for at the moment I was thinking of 
her as once when a baby she lay for dead in my arms. Mr. 
Blackstone got up and left the room, and my husband rose 
and would have followed him; but, saying he would be back 
in a few minutes, he shut the door and left us. It was half an 
hour—a dreadful half hour, before he returned, for to sit doing 
nothing, not even being carried somewhere to do something, 
was frightful 


190 


The Vicar*s Daughter, 

**IVe told them all about it,” he said. *‘I couldn’t do 
better than follow Mi?s Clare’s example. But my impression 
is, that if the woman you suspect be the culprit, she would 
make her way out to the open as quickly as possible. Such 
people are most at home on the commons j they are of a less 
gregarious nature than the wild animals of the town. What 
shall you do next ? ” 

“ That is just what I want to know,” answered my hus¬ 
band. 

He never asked advice except when he did not know what 
to do ; and never except from one whose advice he meant to 
follow. 

“Well,” returned Mr. Blackstone, “ I should put an adver¬ 
tisement into every one of the morning papers.” 

“ But the offices will all be closed,” said Percivale. 

“ Yes; the publishing, but not the printing offices.” 

“ How am I to find out where they are ? ” 

“ I know one or two of them, and the people there will tell 
us the rest” 

“ Then you mean to go with us ? ” 

“ Of course I do—that is, if you will have me. You don’t 
think I would leave you to go alone ? Have you had any 
supper ?” 

“ No. Would you like something, my dear? ” said Percivale 
turning to me. 

“ I couldn’t swallow a mouthful,” I said. 

“Nor I either,” said Percivale. 

“ Then I’ll just take a hunch of bread with me,” said Mr. 
Blackstone, “ for I am hungry. I’ve had nothing since one 
o’clock.” 

We neither asked him not to go, nor offered to wait till he 
had had his supper. Before we reached Printing-house Square 
he had eaten half a loaf. 

“ Are you sure,” said my husband, as we were starting, “that 
they will take an advertisement at the printing-office ? ” 

“ I think they will. The circumstances are pn^ssing. They 


My First Terror^ 191 

will see that we are honest people, and will make a push to 
help us. But for anything I know it may be quite en rlgle*' 

“ We must pay, though,” said Percivale, putting his hand in 
his pocket, and taking out his purse. “There! Just as I 
feared 1 No money 1—Two—three shillings—and sixpence ! ” 

Mr. Blackstone stopped the cab. 

“ I’ve not got as much,” he said. ** But it’s of no conse¬ 
quence. I’ll run and write a cheque.” 

“But where can you change it? The little shops about 
here won’t be able.” 

“ There’s the Blue Posts.” 

“ Let me take it, then. You won’t be seen going into a 
public-house ? ” said Percivale. 

“ Pooh ! pooh 1 ” said Mr. Blackstone. “ Do you think my 
character won’t stand that much ? Besides, they wouldn’t 
change it for you. But when I think of it, I used the last 
cheque in my book in the beginning of the week. Never mind; 
they will lend me five pounds.” 

We drove to the Blue Posts. He got out, and returned in 
one minute with five sovereigns. 

“ What will people say to your borrowing five pounds at a 
public-house?” said Percivale. 

“ If they say what is right, it won’t hurt me.” 

“ But if they say what is wrong ? ” 

“ That they can do any time, and that won’t hurt me either.* 

“ But what will the landlord himself think ? ” 

“ I have no doubt he feels grateful to me for being so friendly. 
You can’t oblige a man more than by asking a light favour of 
him.” 

“ Do you think it well in your position to be obliged to a 
man in his ? ” asked Percivale. 

“ I do. I am glad of the chance. It will bring me into 
friendly relations with him.” 

“ Do you wish then to be in friendly relations with him ? ” 

“ Indubitably. In what other relations do you suppose a 
clergyman oi;ght to be with one of his parishioners?” 


192 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

** You didn’t invite him into your parish, I presume.” 

** No; and he didn’t invite me. The thing was settled in 
higher quarters. There we are anyhow ; and I have done quite 
a stroke of business in borrowing that money of him.” 

Mr. Blackstone laughed, and the laugh sounded frightfully 
harsh in my ears. 

“ A man—” my husband went on, who was surprised that a 
clergyman should be so liberal—a man who sells drink!— 
in whose house so many of your parishioners will to-morrow 
night get too drunk to be in church next morning! ” 

“I wish having been drunk were what would keep them 
from being in church. Drunk or sober, it would be all the 
same. Few of them care to go. They are turning out better, 
however, than when first I came. As for the publican, who 
knows what chance of doing him a good turn it may put in 
my way ? ” 

“ You don’t expect to persuade him to shut shop?” 

*‘No ; he must persuade himself to that.” 

‘‘ What good, then, can you expect to do him ? ” 

‘‘Who knows? I say. You can’t tell what good may or 
may not come out of it, any more than you can tell which of 
your efforts, or which of your helpers, may this night be the 
means of restoring your child.” 

“ What do you expect the man to say about it ? *’ 

“ I shall provide him with something to say. I don’t want 
him to attribute it to some foolish charity. He might. In 
the New Testament, publicans are acknowledged to have 
hearts.” 

“ Yes ; but the word has a very different meaning in the 
New Testament.” 

“The feeling religious people bear towards them, however, 
comes very near to that with which society regarded the 
publicans of old.” 

“They are far more hurtful to society than those tax- 
gatherers.” 

“ They may be. I dare say they are. Perhaj?^ they are 


My First Terror. 193 

worse than the sinners with whom their namesakes of the New 
Testament are always coupled.” 

I will not follow the conversation further; I will only give 
the close of it. Percivale told me afterwards that he had gone 
on talking in the hope of diverting my thoughts a little. 

‘‘ What then do you mean to tell him ? ” asked Percivale. 

“ The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” 
said Mr. Blackstone. “ I shall go in to-morrow morning, just 
at the time when there will probably be far too many people 
at the bar—a little after noon. I shall return him his five 
sovereigns, ask for a glass of ale, and tell him the whole story— 
how my friend, the celebrated painter, came with his wife— 
and the rest of it, adding, I trust, that the child is all right, and 
at the moment probably going out for a walk with her mother, 
who won’t let her out of her sight for a moment.” 

He laughed again, and again I thought him heartless; but 
I understand him better now. I wondered, too, that Percivale 
could go on talking, and yet I found that their talk did make 
the time go a little quicker. At length we reached the printing- 
office of The Times —near Blackfriars Bridge, I think. 

After some delay, we saw an overseer, who, curt enough a< 
first, became friendly when he heard our case. If he had not 
had children of his own, we might perhaps have fared worse. 
He took down the description and address, and promised that 
the advertisement should appear in the morning’s paper in the 
best place he could now find for it. 

Before we left, we received minute directions as to the 
whereabouts of the next nearest office. We spent the greater 
part of the night in driving from one printing-office to another. 
Mr. Blackstone declared he would not leave us until we had 
found her. 

“ You have to preach twice to-morrow,” said Percivale: it 
was then three o’clock. 

“I shall preach all the better,” he returned.—“Yes; I feel 
as if I should give them one good sermon to-morrow.” 

“ The man talks as if the child were found already! ” I 

o 


194 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

thought with indignation. ** It’s a pity he hasn’t a child of his 
own!—he would be more sympathetic.” At the same time if I 
had been honest I should have confessed to myself that his 
confidence and hope helped to keep me up. 

At last, having been to the printing-office of every daily paper 
in London, we were on our dreary way home. Oh, how 
dreary it was !—and the more dreary that the cool, sweet light 
of a spring dawn was growing in every street, no smoke 
having yet begun to pour from the multitudinous chimneys to 
sully its purity! From misery and want of sleep, my soul and 
body both felt like a grey foggy night. Every now and then 
the thought of my child came with a fresh pang—not that she 
was one moment absent from me, but that a new thought about 
her would dart a new sting into the ever-burning throb of 
the wound. If you had asked me the one blessed thing in the 
world, I should have said sleep —with my husband and children 
beside me. But I dreaded sleep now, both for its visions and 
for the frightful waking. Now and then I would start violently, 
thinking I heard my Ethel cry; but from the cab-window no 
child was ever to be seen, down all the lonely street. Then I 
would sink into a succession of efforts to picture to myself her 
little face—white with terror and misery, and smeared with the 
dirt of the pitiful hands that rubbed the streaming eyes. They 
might have beaten her ! she might have cried herself to sleep in 
some wretched hovel—or, worse, in some fever-stricken and 
crowded lodging-house, with horrible sights about her and 
Aorrible voices in her ears ! Or she might at that moment be 
dragged wearily along a country-road, farther and farther from 
her mother! I could have shrieked and torn my hair. What 
if I should never see her again ? She might be murdered, and 
I never know it! O my darling ! my darling! 

At the thought a groan escaped me. A hand was laid on my 
arm. That I knew was my husband’s. But a voice was in my 
ear, and that was Mr. Blackstone’s. 

“ Do you think God loves the child less than you do ? Or 
do you think he is less able to take care of her than you are ? 


















































































































































































My First Terror, 195 

When the disciples thought themselves sinking, Jesus rebuked 
them for being afraid. - Be still, and you will see the hand of 
God in this. Good you cannot foresee will come out of it.” 

I could not answer him, but I felt both rebuked and grateful. 

All at once I thought of Roger. What would he say when 
he found that his pet was gone, and we had never told him ? 

“RogerI” I said to my husband. “WeVe never told 
him!” 

“ Let us go now,” he returned. 

We were at the moment close to North Crescent. 

After a few thundering raps at the door, the landlady came 
down. Percivale rushed up, and in a few minutes returned 
with Roger. They got into the cab. A great talk followed, 
but I heard hardly anything, or rather I heeded nothing. I 
only recollect that Roger was very indignant with his brother 
for having been out all night without him to help. 

“ I never thought of you, Roger,” said Percivale. 

“ So much the worse ! ” said Roger. 

“ No,” said Mr. Blackstone. “ A thousand things make us 
forget. I daresay your brother all but forgot God in the first 
misery of his loss. To have thought of you and not to have 
told you, would have been another thing.” 

A few minutes after, we stopped at our desolate house, 
and the cabman was dismissed with one of the sovereigns 
from the Blue Posts. I wondered afterwards what manner 
of man or woman had changed it there. A dim light was 
burning in the drawing-room. Percivale took his pass-key 
^ and opened the door. I hurried in and went straight to my 
own room, for I longed to be alone that I might weep—nor 
weep only. I fell on my knees by the bedside, buried my 
face, and sobbed and tried to pray. But I could not collect 
my thoughts, and, overwhelmed by a fresh access of despair, I 
started again to my feet. 

Could I believe my eyes! What was that in the bed? 
Trembling as with an ague—in terror lest the vision should 
by vanishing prove itself a vision—I stooped towards it. I 

o 2 


ig 6 The \ 'icuir's Daughter, 

heard a breathing ! It was the fair hair and the rosy face of 
my darling—fast asleep—without one trace of suffering on her 
angelic loveliness. I remember no more for a wh.le. They 
tell me I gave a great cry and fell on the floor. When I came 
to myself I was lying on the bed. My husband was bending 
over me, and Roger and Mr. Blackstone were both in the 
room. I could not speak, but my husband understood my 
questioning gaze. 

“ Yes, yes, my love,” he said quietly; ‘‘ she’s all right— 
safe and sound, thank God! ” 

And I did thank God. 

Mr. Blackstone came to the bedside with a look and a 
smile that seemed to my conscience to say, “ 1 told you so.” 1 
held out my hand to him, but could only weep. Then I re¬ 
membered how we had vexed Roger, and called him. 

“ Dear Roger,” I said, “ forgive me, and go and tell Miss 
Clare.” 

I had some reason to think this the best amends I could 
make him. 

“ I will go at once,” he said. “ She will be anxious.” 

** And 1 will go to my sermon,” said Mr. Blackstone, with the 
same quiet smile. 

They shook hands with me, and went away. And my 
husband and I rejoiced over our first-born. 


Its SeqtieL 




CHAPTER XXVL 

ITS SEQUEU 

My darling was recovered neither through Miss Clare’s in¬ 
junctions nor Mr. Blackstone’s bell-ringing. A woman was 
walking steadily westward, carrying the child asleep in her 
arms, when a policeman stopped her at Turnham Green. 
She betrayed no fear, only annoyance, and offered no resistance, 
only begged he would not wake the child, or take her from 
her. He brought them in a cab to the police-station, whence 
the child was sent home. As soon as she arrived, Sarah gave 
her a warm bath and put her to bed, but she scarcely opened 
her eyes. 

Jemima had run about the streets till midnight, and then 
fallen asleep on the doorstep, where the policeman found her 
when he brought the child. For a week she went about like 
one dazed, and the blunders she made were marvellous. She 
ordered a brace of cod from the poulterer, and a pound of 
anchovies at the crockery shop. One day at dinner, we could 
not think how the chops were so pulpy, and we got so many bits 
of bone in our mouths : she had powerfully beaten them as if 
they had been steaks. She sent up melted butter for bread 
sauce, and stuffed a hare with sausages. 

After breakfast, Percivale walked to the police-station, to 
thank the inspector, pay what expenses had been incurred, and 
see the woman. I was not well enough to go with him.—M3 
Marion is a white-faced thing, and her eyes look much too big 
for her small face.—I suggested that he should take Miss Clare. 
As it was early, he was fortunate enough to find her at home, 
;Mid she accompanied him willingly, and at once recognized the 
woman as the one she had befriended. 

He told the magistrate he did not wish to punish her, but 
that there were certain circumstances which made him desirous 
of detaining her until a gentleman, who, he believed, could 


195 The Vicar's Daughter, 

identify her, should arrive. The magistrate therefore remanded 
her. 

The next day but one my father came. When he saw her, he 
had little doubt she was the same that had carried off Theo; but 
he could not be absolutely certain, because he had seen her only 
by moonlight. He told the magistrate the whole story, saying 
that, if she should prove the mother of the child, he was most 
anxious to try what he could do for her. The magistrate ex¬ 
pressed grave doubts whether he would find it possible to be¬ 
friend her to any effectual degree. My father said he would try, 
if he could but be certain she was the mother. 

“ If she stole the child merely to compel the restitution of 
her own,” he said, “ I cannot regard her conduct with any 
abhorrence. But if she is not the mother of the child, I must 
leave her to the severity of the law.” 

** I once discharged a woman,” said the magistrate, “ who 
had committed the same offence, for I was satisfied she had 
done so purely from the desire to possess the child.” 

“ But might not a thief say he was influenced merely by the 
desire to add another sovereign to his hoard ? ” 

^‘The greed of the one is a natural affection; that of the 
other a vice.” 

“ But the injury to the loser is far greater in the one case than 
in the other.” 

To set that off, however, the child is more easily dis¬ 
covered. Besides, the false appetite grows with indulgence, 
whereas one child would still the natural one.” 

Then you would allow her to go on stealing child after child 
until she.succeeded in keeping one,” said my father, laughing. 

“ I dismissed her with the warning that if ever she did so 
again, this would be brought up against her, and she would have 
the severest punishment the law could inflict. It may be right to 
pass a first offence, and wrong to pass a second. I tried to make 
her measure the injury done to the mother by her own sorrow at 
losing the child, and I think not without effect. At all events, it 
was some years ago, and I have not heard of her again.” 


Its Sequel, 199 

Now came in the benefit of the kindness Miss Clare had 
shown the woman. I doubt if any one else could have got the 
truth fiom her. Even she found it difficult; for, to tell her that 
if she was Theo’s mother, she should not be punished, might be 
only to tempt her to lie. All Miss Clare could do was to 
assure her of the kindness of every one concerned, and to urge 
her to disclose her reasons for doing such a grievous wrong as 
steal another woman’s child. 

“ They stole my child,” she blurted out at last, when the 
cruelty of the action was pressed upon her. 

“ Oh, no!” said Miss Clare; “ you left her to die in the cold.” 

No, no ! ” she cried. “ I wanted somebody to hear her and 
take her in. I wasn’t far off, and was just going to take her again, 
when I saw a light, and heard them searching for her. Oh dear ! 
Oh dear 1 ” 

Then how can you say they stole her ? You would have had 
no child at all but for them. She was nearly dead when they 
found her! And in return you go and steal their grandchild ! ” 

“ They took her from me afterwards. They wouldn’t let me 
have my own flesh and blood. I wanted to let them know what 
it was to have their child taken from them.” 

“ How could they tell she was your child, when you stole her 
away like a thief? It might, for anything they knew, be some 
other woman stealing her, as you stole theirs the other day 
What would have become of you, if it had been so ? ” 

To this reasoning she made no answer. 

“ I want my child; I want my child,” she moaned. Then 
breaking out—“ I shall kill myself if I don’t get my child ! ” she 
cried. “ O lady, you don’t know what it is to have a child and 
not have her! I shall kill myself if they don’t give me her 
back. They can’t say I did their child any harm. I was as 
good to her as if she had been my own.” 

“ They know that quite well, and don’t want to punish you. 
Would you like to see your child ? ” 

She clasped her hands above her head, fell on her knees at Miss 
Clare’s feet, and looked rp in her face without uttering a word. 


200 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

“ I will speak to Mr. Walton,” said Miss Clare, and left her. 

The next morning she was discharged at the request of my 
husband, who brought her home with him. 

Sympathy with the mother-passion in her bosom had melted 
away all my resentment. She was a fine young woman of about 
five and twenty, though her weather browned complexion made 
her look at first much older. With the help of the servants, I 
persuaded her to have a bath, during which they removed her 
clothes, and substituted others. She objected to putting them 
on, seemed half-frightened at them, as if they might involve some 
shape of bondage, and begged to have her own again. At last 
Jemima, who, although so sparingly provided with brains, is not 
without genius, prevailed upon her, insisting that her little girl 
would turn away from her if she wasn’t well dressed, for she had 
been used to see ladies about her. With a deep sigh, she yielded, 
begging however to have her old garments restored to her. 

She had brought with her a small bundle, tied up in a cotton 
handkerchief, and from it she now took a scarf of red silk, and 
twisted it up with her black hair in a fashion I had never seen 
before. In this head-dress she had almost a brilliant look, while 
her carriage had a certain dignity hard of association with 
poverty—not inconsistent however with what I have since 
learned about the gipsies. My husband admired her even more 
than I did, and made a very good sketch of her. Her eyes were 
large and dark—unquestionably fine; and if there was not much 
of the light of thought in them, they had a certain wildness 
which in a measure made up for the want. She had rather a 
Spanish than an eastern look, I thought — with an air of defiance 
that prevented me from feeling at ease with her; but in the 
pr( sence of Miss Clare she seemed humbler, and answered her 
questions more readily than ours. If Ethel was in the room, her 
eyes would be constantly wandering after her, with a wistful, 
troubled, eager look. Surely the mother-passion must have in¬ 
finite relations and destinies! 

As I was unable to leave home, my father persuaded Miss 
Clare to accompany him and help him to take charge of her. I 


201 


Its Sequd, 

confess it was a relief to me when she left the house, for though 
I wanted to be as kind to her as I could, I felt considerable dis¬ 
comfort in her presence. 

When Miss Clare returnee the next day but one, I found she 
had got from her the main points of her history, fully justifying 
previous conjectures of my father’s, founded on what he knew 
of the character and customs of the gipsies. 

She belonged to one of the principal gipsy families in this 
country. The fact that they had no settled habitation, but 
lived in tents like Abraham and Isaac, had nothing to do with 
poverty. The silver buttons on her father’s Sunday clothes, 
were, she said, worth nearly twenty pounds; and when a friend of 
any distinction came to tea with them, they spread a table-cloth 
of fine linen on the grass, and set out upon it the best of china, 
and a tea-service of hall-marked silver. She said her friends—as 
much as any gentleman in the land—scorned stealing; and 
affirmed that no real gipsy would “risk his neck for his 
belly,” except he were driven by hunger. All her family could 
read, she said, and carried a big Bible about with them. 

One summer they were encamped for several months in the 
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, making horn-spoons and baskets, 
and some of them working in tin. There they were visited by a 
clergyman who talked and read the Bible to them and prayed 
with them. But all their visitors were not of the same sort with 
him. One of them was a young fellow of loose character, a clerk 
in the city, who, attracted by her appearance, prevailed upon 
her to meet him often. She was not then eighteen. Any aberra¬ 
tion from the paths of modesty is exceedingly rare among the 
gipsies, and regarded with severity; and her father, hearing of this, 
gave her a terrible punishment with the whip he used in driving 
his horses. In terror of what would follow when the worst fcame 
to be known, she ran away, and, soon forsaken by her so-called 
lover, wandered about, a common vagrant, until her baby was 
born—under the stars, on a summer night, in a field of long 
grass. 

For some time she wandered up and down, longing to join 


202 


The Vicar^s Daughter, 

some tribe of her own people, but dreading unspeakably the 
disgrace of her motherhood. At length, having found a 
home for her child, she associated herself with a gang of gipsies 
of inferior character, amongst whom she had many hardships 
to endure. Things however bettered a little after one of thtir 
number was hanged for stabbing a cousin, and her position 
improved. It was not however any intention of carrying off 
her child to share her present lot, but the urgings of mere 
mother-hunger for a sight of her, that drove her to the Hall. 
When she had succeeded in enticing her out of sight of the 
house, however, the longing to possess her grew fierce, and, 
braving all consequences, or rather, I presume, unable to weigh 
them, she did carry her away. Foiled in this attempt, and 
seeing that her chances of future success in any similar one 
were diminished by it, she sought some other plan. Learning 
that one of the family was married and had removed to London, 
she succeeded through gipsy acquaintances, who lodged 
occasionally near Tottenham Court Road, in finding out where 
we lived, and carried off Ethel with the vague intent, as we 
had rightly conjectured, of using her as a means for the 
recovery of her own child. 

Theodora was now about seven years of age—almost as wild 
as ever. Although tolerably obedient, she was not nearly so 
much so as the other children had been at her age—partly, 
perhaps, because my father could not bring himself to use that 
severity to the child of other people with which he had judged 
it proper to treat his own. 

Miss Clare was present with my father and the rest of the family 
when the mother and daughter met. They were all more than 
curious to see how the child would behave, and whether 
there would be any signs of an instinct that drew hei to her 
parent. In this, however, they were disappointed. 

It was a fine warm forenoon when she came running on to 
the lawn where they were assembled—the gipsy mother with 
1 ^1: em. 


Its Sequel. 203 

“ There she is ! ” said my father to the woman. “ Make the 
best of yourself you can.” 

Miss Clare said the poor creature turned very pale, but her 
eyes glowed with such a fire ! 

With the cunning of her race, she knew better than to bound 
forward and catch up the child in her arms. She walked away 
from the rest, and stood watching the little damsel, romping 
merrily with Mr. Wagtail. They thought she recognized the 
dog, and was afraid of him. She had put on a few silver 
ornaments which she had either kept or managed to procure 
notwithstanding her poverty; for both the men and women of 
her race manifest in a strong degree that love for barbaric 
adornment which, as well as other their peculiarities, points to 
an eastern origin. The glittering of these in the sun, and the 
glow of her red scarf in her dark hair, along with the strangeness 
of her whole appearance, attracted the child, and she approached 
to look at her nearer. Then the mother took from her pocket 
a large gilded ball, which had probably been one of the orna¬ 
ments on the top of a clock, and rolled it gleaming golden 
along the grass. Theo and Mr. Wagtail bounded after it with 
a shriek and a bark. Having examined it for a moment, the 
child threw it again along the lawn, and this time the mother, 
lithe as a leopard, and fleet as a savage, joined in the chase, 
caught it first, and again sent it spinning away—farther from 
the assembled group. Once more all three followed in swift 
pursuit; but this time the mother took care to allow the child 
to seize the treasure. After the sport had continued a little 
while, what seemed a general consultation of mother, child, and 
dog, took place over the bauble; and presently they saw that 
Theo was eating something. 

** I trust,” said my mother, “ she won’t hurt the child with 
any nasty stuff.” 

“ She ’will not do so wittingly,” said my father, ** you may be 
sure. Anyhow, we must not interfere.” 

In a few minutes more the mother approached them, with a 


204 


The Vicars Daughter, 

subdued look of triumph and her eyes overflowing with light, 
carrying the child in her arms. Theo was playing with some 
foreign coins which adorned her hair, and with a string of coral 
and silver beads round her neck. 

r or the rest of the day they were left to do much as they 
pleased, only every one kept good watch. 

But in the joy of recovering her child, the mother seemed 
herself to have gained a new and childlike spirit. The more 
than willingness with which she hastened to do what, even in 
respect of her child, was requested of her, as if she fully acknow¬ 
ledged the right of authority in those who had been her best 
friends, was charming. Whether this would last when the 
novelty of the new experience had worn off, whether jealousy 
would not then come in for its share in the ordering of her 
conduct, remained to be shown ; but in the meantime the good 
in her was uppermost 

She was allowed to spend a whole fortnight in making 
friends with her daughter, before a word was spoken about the 
future, the design of my father being through the child to win 
the mother. Certain people considered him not eager enough 
to convert the wicked: whatever apparent indifference he 
showed in that direction, arose from his utter belief in the 
guiding of God, and his dread of outrunning his designs. He 
would follow the operations of the spirit. 

“Your forced hothouse fruits,’^ he would say, “are often 
finer to look at than those which have waited for God’s wind 
and weather, but what are they worth in respect of all for the 
sake of which fruit exists ? ” 

Until an opportunity, then, was thrown in his way, he would 
hold back ; but when it was clear to him that he had to minister, 
then was he thoughtful, watchful, instant, unswerving. You 
might have seen him during this time, as the letters of Connie 
informed me, often standing for minutes together watching the 
mother and daughter, and pondering in his heart concerningthem. 

Every advantage being thus afforded her, not without the 
stirring o\ some natural pangs in those who had hitherto 


Its SequeL 205 

mothered the chiid, the fortnight had not passed before to all 
appearance the unknown mother was with the child the 
greatest favourite of all. And it was my father’s expectation, 
for he was a profound believer in blood, that the natural and 
generic instincts of the child would be developed together; in 
other words, that as she grew in what was common to humanity, 
she would grow likewise in what belonged to her individual 
origin. This was not an altogether comforting expectation to 
those of us who neither had so much faith as he, nor saw so 
hopefully the good that lay in every evil. 

One twilight, he overheard the following talk between them. 
When they came near where he sat, Theodora, carried by her 
mother, and pulling at her neck with her arms, was saying, 
“ Tell me ; tell me; tell me,” in the tone of one who would 
compel an answer to a question repeatedly asked in vain. 

“ What do you want me to tell you ? ” said her mother, 

“ You know well enough. Tell me your name.” 

In reply she uttered a few words my father did not com¬ 
prehend, and took to be Zingaree. The child shook her petu¬ 
lantly and with violence, crying, 

“ That’s nonsense. I don’t know what you say, and I don’t 
know what to call you.” 

My father had desired the household, if possible, to give no 
name to the woman in the child’s hearing. 

“ Call me mam, if you like.” 

But you’re not a lady, and I won’t say ma’am to you,” 
said Theo, rude as a child will sometimes be when least she 
intends offence. 

Her mother set her down, and gave a deep sigh. Was it 
only that the child’s restlessness and roughness tired her? My 
father thought otherwise. 

“ Tell me, tell me,” the child persisted, beating her with her 
little clenched fist “Take me up again, and tell me, or I will 
make you.” 

My father thought it time to interfere. He stepped forward. 
The mother started with a little cry, and caught up the child. 


206 


The Vicar’s Daughter. 

“ Theo,” said my father, “ I cannot allow you to be rude, es¬ 
pecially to one who loves you more than any one else loves you.” 

The woman set her down again, dropped on her knees, and 
caught and kissed his hand. 

The child stared; but she stood in awe of my father— 
perhaps the more that she had none for any one else—and, 
when her mother lifted her once more, was carried away in 
silence. 

The difficulty was got over by the child’s being told to call 
her mother Nurse. 

My father was now sufficiently satisfied with immediate re¬ 
sults to carry out the remainder of his contingent plan, of 
which my mother heartily approved. The gardener and 
his wife being elderly people, and having no family, therefore 
not requiring the whole of their cottage, which was within a 
short distance of the house, could spare a room, which my 
mother got arranged for the gipsy, and there she was housed, 
with free access to her child, and the understanding that when 
Theo liked to sleep with her, she was at liberty to do so. 

She was always ready to make herself useful; but it was little 
she could do for some time, and it was with difficulty that she 
settled to any occupation at all continuous. 

Before long it became evident that her old habits were 
working in her and making her restless. She was pining after 
the liberty of her old wandering life—with sun and wind, space 
and change, all about her. It was spring ; and the reviving life 
of nature was rousing in her the longing for motion and room 
and variety engendered by the roving centuries which had 
passed since first her ancestors were driven from their homes in 
far Hindostan. But my father had foreseen the probability, 
and had already thought over what could be done for her if the 
wandering passion should revive too powerfully. He reasoned 
that there was nothing bad in such an impulse—one doubtless 
which would have been felt in all its force by Abraham himself, 
had he quitted his tents and gone to dwell in a city—however 
much its indulgence might place her at a disadvantage in the 


Its Sequel. 20 / 

midst of a settled social order. He saw too that any attempt 
to coerce it would piobably result in entire frustration; that 
the passion for old forms of freedom would gather tenfold 
vigour in consequence. It would be far better to favour its 
indulgence, in the hope that the love of her child would, like 
an elastic but infrangible cord, gradually tame her down to a 
more settled life. 

He proposed, therefore, that she should, as a matter of duty, 
go and visit her parents, and let them know of her welfare. 
She looked alarmed. 

“ Your father will show you no unkindness, I am certain, 
after the lapse of so many years,” he added. “ Think it over, 
and tell me to-morrow how you feel about it. You shall go 
by train to Edinburgh, and once there you will soon be able to 
find them. Of course you couldn’t take the child with you, 
but she will be safe with us till you come back.” 

The result was that she went, and having found her people, 
and spent a fortnight with them, returned in less than a month. 
The rest of the year she remained quietly at home, stilling her 
desires by frequent and long rambles with her child, in which 
Mr. Wagtail always accompanied them. My father thought it 
better to run the risk of her escaping than force the thought of 
it upon her by appearing not to trust her. But it came out 
that she had a suspicion that the dog was there to prevent, or 
at least expose any such imprudence. The following spring 
she went on a second visit to her friends, but was back within 
a week, and the next year did not go at all. 

Meantime my father did what he could to teach her, pre¬ 
senting every truth as something it was necessary she should 
teach her child. With this duty, he said, he always baited the 
hook with which he fished for her ;—“ or, to take a figure from 
the old hawking days, her eyas is the lure with which I would 
reclaim the haggard hawk.” 

What will be the final result, who dares prophesy? At my 
old home she still resides—grateful, and in some measure 
useful, idolizing, but not altogether spoiling her child—who 


2o8 The Vicars Daughter. 

understands the relation beiA^een them, and now calls hei 
mother. 

Dora teaches Theo, and the mother comes in for what share 
she inclines to appropriate. She does not take much to 
reading, but she is fond of listening, and is a regular and de¬ 
vout attendant at public worship. Above all, they have 
sufficing proof that her conscience is awake, and that she gives 
some heed to what it says. 

Mr. Blackstone was right when he told me that good I was 
unable to foresee would result from the loss which then drowned 
me in despair. 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

TROUBLES. 

In the beginning of the following year, the lady who filled 
Miss Clare’s place was married, and Miss Clare resumed the 
teaching of Judy’s children. She was now so handsomely paid 
for her lessons that she had reduced the number of her engage¬ 
ments very much, and had more time to give to the plans in 
which she laboured with Lady Bernard. The latter would 
willingly have settled such an annuity upon her as would have 
enabled her to devote all her time to this object; but Miss 
Clare felt that the earning of her bread was one of the natural 
ties that bound her in the bundle of social life, and that in 
what she did of a spiritual kind, she must be untrammelled by 
money-relations. If she could not do both —provide for her¬ 
self and assist others—it would be a different thing, she said, 
for then it would be clear that Providence intended her to 
receive the hire of the labourer for the necessity laid upon her. 
But what influenced her chiefly was the dread of having any¬ 
thing she did for her friends attributed to professional motives 
instead of the lecognition of eternal relations. Besides, as she 


Troubles, 


209 

said, it would both lessen the means at Lady Bernard’s dis¬ 
posal, and cause herself to feel bound to spend all her energies 
in that one direction, in which case she would be deprived of 
the recreative influences of change and more polished society. 
In her labour she would yet feel her freedom, and would not 
serve even Lady Bernard for money, except she saw clearly 
that such was the will of the one master. In thus refusing her 
offer, she but rose in her friend’s estimation. 

In the spring, great trouble fell upon the Morleys. One of 
the children was taken with scarlet fever; and then another 
and another was seized in such rapid succession—^until five of 
them were lying ill together—that there was no time to think 
of removing them. Cousin Judy would accept no assistance 
in nursing them beyond that of her own maids, until her 
strength gave way and she took the infection herself in the 
form of diphtheria, when she was compelled to take to her 
bed, in such agony at the thought of handing her children over 
to hired nurses, that there was great ground for fearing her 
strength would yield. 

She lay moaning, with her eyes shut, when a hand was laid 
01, hers, and Miss Clare’s voice was in her ear. She had come 
to give her usual lesson to one of the girls who had as yet 
escaped the infection—for, while she took ever)^ precaution^ 
she never turned aside from her work for any dread of con¬ 
sequences ; and when she heard that Mrs. Morley had been 
taken ill, she walked straight to her room. 

“ Go away,” said Judy. Do you want to die too ? ” 

“Dear Mrs. Morley,” said Miss Clare, “I will just run home, 
and make a few arrangements, and then come back and nurse you.” 

“Never mind me,” said Judy. “The children! the children! 
What shall I do ? ” 

“ I am quite able to look after you all—if you will allow me 
to bring a young woman to help me.” 

“You are an angel!’’said poor Judy. “But there is no 
occasion to bring any one with you. My servants are quite 
competent.” 

P 


210 


The Vicar^s Daughter. 

I must have everything in my own hands,” said Miss Clare; 
“ and therefore must have some one who will do exactly as I 
tell her. This girl has been with me now for some time, and 
I can depend upon her. Servants always look down upon 
governesses.” 

Do whatever you like, you blessed creature,” said Judy. 
’*If any one of my servants behaves improperly to you, or 
neglects your orders, she shall go as soon as I am up again.” 

“ I would rather give them as little opportunity as I can of 
running the risk. If I may bring this friend of my own, I shall 
soon have the house under hospital regulations. But I have 
been talking too much. I might almost have returned by this 
time. It is a bad beginning if I have hurt you already by say¬ 
ing more than was necessary.” 

She had hardly left the room before Judy had fallen asleep, 
so much was she relieved by the offer of her services. Ere she 
awoke, Marion was in a cab on her way back to Bolivar Square, 
with her friend and two carpet bags. Within an hour, she had 
entrenched herself in a spare bedroom, had lighted a fire, got 
encumbering finery out of the way, arranged all the medicines 
on a chest of drawers, and set the clock on the mantel-piece 
going, made the round of the patients, who were all in adjoin¬ 
ing rooms, and the round of the house, to see that the disin¬ 
fectants were fresh and active, added to their number, and 
then gone to await the arrival of the medical attendant in Mrs. 
Morley’s room. 

“ Dr. Brand might have been a little more gracious,” said 
Judy ; “ but I thought it better not to interrupt him by explam- 
ing that you were not the professional nurse he took you for.” 

“ Indeed there was no occasion,” answered Miss Clare. “ I 
should have told him so myself, had it not been that I did a 
nurse’s regular work in St. George’s Hospital for two months, 
and h ive been there for a week or so several times since, so 
that 1 believe I have earned the right to be spoken to as such. 
Anyhow, I understood every word he said.” 

Meeting Mr Morley in the hall, the doctor advised him not 


Troubles, 


211 


to go near his wife, diphtheria being so infectious; but com* 
forted him with the assurance that thfc nurse appeared an in¬ 
telligent young person, who would attend to all his directions; 
adding,— 

I could have wished she had been older, but there is a 
great deal of illness about, and experienced nurses are scarce.” 

Miss Clare was a week in the house before Mr. Morley saw 
her, or knew she was there. One evening she ran down to 
the dining-room, where he sat over his lonely glass of Madeira, 
to get some brandy, and went straight to the sideboard. As 
she turned to leave the room, he recognized her, and said, in 
some astonishment,— 

** You need not trouble yourself. Miss Clare. The nurse can 
get what she wants from Hawkins. Indeed I don’t see— 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Morley. If you wish to speak to me, I 
will return in a few minutes; but I have a good deal to attend 
to just at this moment” 

She left the room, and, as he had said nothing in reply, did 
not return. 

Two days after, about the same hour, whether suspecting 
the fact, or for some other reason, he requested the butler to 
send the nurse to him. 

“ The nurse from the nursery, sir; or the young person as 
teaches the young ladies the piano ? ” asked Hawkins. 

“ I mean the sick-nurse,” said his master. 

In a few minutes Miss Clare entered the dining-room, and 
approached Mr. Morley. 

“ How do you do. Miss Clare ? ” he said stiffly, for to any 
one in his employment he was gracious only now and then. 
“ Allow me to say that I doubt the propriety of your being 
here so much. You cannot fail to carry the infection. I think 
your lessons had better be postponed until all your pupils are 
able to benefit by them. I have just sent for the nurse, and, 
—if you please—” 

“ Yes. Hawkins told me you wanted me,” said Miss Clare 
I did not want you. He must have mistaken.” 


212 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

“ I am the nurse, Mr. Morley.” 

“ Then I must say it is not with my approval,” h t ret irned, 
rising from his chair in anger. “ I was given to understand 
that a properly qualified person was in charge of my wife and 
family. This is no ordinary case where a little codd'ing is all 
that is wanted.” 

“ I am perfectly qualified, Mr. Morley.” 

He walked up and down the room several times. 

“ I must speak to Mrs. Morley about this,” he said. 

“ I entreat you will not disturb her. She is not so well this 
afternoon.” 

“ How is this. Miss Clare ? Pray explain to me how it is 
that you come to be taking a part in the affairs of the family 
so very different from that for which Mrs. Morley—which— 
was arranged between Mrs. Morley and yourself” 

“ It is but an illustration of the law of supply and demand,” 
answered Marion. “ A nurse was wanted; Mrs. Morley had 
strong objections to a hired nurse, and I was very glad to be 
able to set her mind .at rest.” 

“ It was very obliging in you, no doubt,” he returned, forcing 
the admission ; “ but—but—” 

“ Let us leave it for the present, if you please; for while I 
am nurse, I must mind my business. Dr. Brand expresses 
himself quite satisfied with me so far as we have gone, and it 
is better for the children, not to mention Mrs. Morley, to have 
some one about them they are used to.” 

She left the room without waiting further parley. 

Dr. Brand, however, not only set Mr. Morley’s mind at rest 
as to her efficiency, but, when a terrible time of anxiety was at 
length over, during which one after another, and especially 
Judy herself, had been in great danger, assured him that, but 
for the vigilance and intelligence of Miss Clare, joined to a 
certain soothing influence which she exercised over every one 
of her patients, he did not believe he could have brought Mrs. 
Morley through. Then indeed he changed his tone to her— 
in a measure, still addressing her as from a height of superiority 


Troubles, 


213 


They had recovered so far that they were to set out the 
next morning for Hastings, when he thus addressed her, having 
sent for her once more to the dining-room. 

“ I hope you will accompany them, Miss Clare,” he said. 
** By this time you must be in no small need of a change 
yourself.” 

“ The best change for me will be Lime Court,” she an¬ 
swered, laughing. 

“ Now pray don’t drive your goodness to the verge of ab¬ 
surdity,” he said pleasantly. 

“ Indeed I am anxious about my friends there,” she returned. 
“ I fear they have not been getting on quite so well without 
me. A bible-woman and a Roman Catholic have been quar¬ 
relling dreadfully, I hear.” 

Mr. Morley compressed his lips. It was annoying to be so 
much indebted to one who, from whatever motives, called such 
people her friends. 

“ Oblige me, then,” he said loftily, taking an envelope from 
the mantel-piece, and handing it to her, “ by opening that at 
your leisure.” 

I will open it now, if you please,” she returned. 

It contained a banknote for a hundred pounds. Mr. Morley, 
though a hard man, was not by any means stingy. She re¬ 
placed it in the envelope, and laid it again on the chimney-piece. 

“You owe me nothing, Mr. Morley,” she said 

“Owe you nothing ! I owe you more than I can ever repay.” 

“Then don’t try it, please. You are very generous; but 
indeed I could not accept it.” 

“You must oblige me.—You might take it from mel' he 
added almost pathetically, as if the bond was so close that 
money was nothing between them. 

“ You are the last—one 01 the last I could take money from, 
Mr. Morley.” 

‘ Why?” 

“Because you think so much of it, and yet would look 
down on me the more if I accepted it.” 


214 


The Yicai^s Daughter, 

He bit his lip, rubbed his forehead with his hand, threM 
back his head, and turned away from her. 

“ I should be very sorry to offend you,” she said, “ and be* 
lieve me, there is hardly anything I value less than money. 
I have enough, and could have plenty more if I liked. I 
would rather have your friendship than all the money you 
possess. But that cannot be so long as—” 

She stopped; she was on the point of going too far, she 
thought 

So long as what ? ” he returned sternly. 

“ So long as you are a worshipper of Mammon,” she answered, 
and left the room. 

She burst out crying when she came to this point She had 
narrated the whole with the air of one making a confession. 

“ I am afraid it was very wrong,” she said; “ and if so, then 
it was very rude as well. But something seemed to force it 
out of me. Just think:—there was a generous heart clogged 
up with self-importance and wealth! To me, as he stood 
there on the hearth-rug, he was a most pitiable object—with 
an impervious wall betwixt him and the kingdom of heaven! 
He seemed like a man in a terrible dream from which I must 
awake him by calling aloud in his ear—except that, alas ! the 
dream was not terrible to him, only to me ! If he had been 
one of my poor friends, guilty of some plain fault, I should 
have told him so without compunction, and why not, being 
what he was ? There he stood—a man of estimable qualities— 
of beneficence if not bounty—no miser, nor consciously uujust 
—^yet a man whose heart the moth and rust were eating into a 
sponge !—who went to church every Sunday, and had many 
friends, not one of whom—not even his own wife—would tell 
him that he was a Mammon-worshipper, and losii g his life. 
It may have been useless, it may have been wrong, but I felt 
driven to it by bare human pity for the misery I saw before 
me.” 

“ It looks to me as if you had the message given you to give 
him,” I said. 

** But—though I don^t know it—whaf if I was annoyed with 


Troubles, 


215 


him for offering me that wretched hundred pounds—in doing 
which he was acting up to the light that was in him ? ” 

I could not help thinking of the light which is darkness, 
but I did not say so. Strange tableau, in this our would-be 
grand nineteenth century—a young and poor woman, prophet¬ 
like rebuking a wealthy London merchant on his own hearth¬ 
rug, as a worshipper of Mammon ! I think she was right— 
not because he was wrong, but because, as I firmly believe, she 
did it from no personal motives whatever, although in her 
modesty she doubted herself. I believe it was from pure re¬ 
gard for the man and for the truth, urging her to an irrepressible 
utterance. If so, should we not say that she spoke by the 
Spirit ? Only I shudder to think what utterance might with 
an equal outward show, be attributed to the same spirit. 
Well—to his own master every one standeth or falleth, whether 
an old prophet who, with a lie in his right hand, entraps an 
honourable guest, or a young prophet, who, with repentance in 
his heart, walks calmly into the jaws of the waiting lion.* 

And no one can tell what effect the words may have had 
upon him. I do not believe he ever mentioned the circum¬ 
stance to his wife. At all events there was no change in her 
manner to Miss Clare. Indeed I could not help fancying that 
a little halo of quiet reverence now encircled the love in every 
look she cast upon her. She firmly believed that Marion had 
saved her life and that of more than one of her children. No¬ 
thing, she said, could equal the quietness and tenderness and 
tirelessness of her nursing. She was never flurried, never im¬ 
patient, and never frightened. Even when the tears would be 
flowing down her face, the light never left her eyes nor the 
music her voice; and when they were all getting better, and 
she had the nursery piano brought out on the landing in the 
middle of the sick-rooms, and there played and sung to them, 
it was, she said, like the voice of an angel come fresh to the 
earth with the same old news of peace and good will. When 

* See the Sermons of the Rev, Henry Whitehead, vicar of St. 
yohn’s, Limehouse; as remarkable for the profundity of their insight 
as for the noble severity of their literary modelling.—G. M. D. 


2I6 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

the children—this I had from the friend she brought with her--^ 
were tossing in the fever, and talking of strange and frightful 
things they saw, one word from her would quiet them, and 
her gentle command was always sufficient to make the most 
rebellious take his medicine. 

She came out of it very pale, and a good deal worn. But 
the day they set off for Hastings, she returned to Lime Court. 
The next day she resumed her lessons, and soon recovered 
her usual appearance. A change of work, she always said, 
was the best restorative. But before a month was over I suc¬ 
ceeded in persuading her to accept my mother's invitation to 
spend a week at the Hall, and from this visit she returned 
quite invigorated. Connie, whom she went to see—for by this 
time she was married to Mr. Turner—was especially delighted 
with her delight in the simplicities of nature. Born and bred 
in the closest town-environment, she had yet a sensitiveness to 
all that made the country so dear to us who were born in it, 
which Connie said surpassed ours, and gave her special satis¬ 
faction as proving that my oft-recurring dread lest such feelings 
might be but the result of childish associations, was groundless, 
and that they were essential to the human nature, and so must be 
felt by God himself Driving along in the pony-carriage—for 
Connie is not able to walk much —Marion would remark upon 
ten things in a morning that my sister had never observed. The 
various effects of light and shade, and the variety of feeling they 
caused, especially interested her. She would spy out a lurking 
sunbeam, as another would find a hidden flower. It seemed as L 
not a glitter in its nest of gloom could escape her. She would 
leave the carriage and make a long round through the fields 
or woods; and when they met at the appointed spot, would 
have her hands full, not of flowers only, but of leaves and 
grasses and weedy things, showing the deepest interest in such 
lowly forms as few would notice except from a scientific know¬ 
ledge of which she had none : it was the thing itself—^its look 
and its home that drew her attention. I cannot help thinking 
that this insight was profoundly one with her interest in the 
corresponding regions of human life and circumstance. 


Aftss Clare amongst her Friends^ 


21 / 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MISS CLARE AMONGST HER FRIENDS. 

I MUST give an instance of the way in which Marion—I am 
tired of calling her Miss Clare, and about this time I began 
to drop it—exercised her influence over her friends. I trust 
the episode, in a story so fragmentary as mine, made up of 
pieces only of a quiet and ordinary life, will not seem unsuitable. 
How I wish I could give it you as she told it to me !—so 
graphic was her narrative, and so true to the forms of speech 
amongst the London poor. I must do what 1 can, well assured 
it must come far short of the original representation. 

One evening, as she was walking up to her attic, she heard a 
noise in one of the rooms, followed by a sound of weeping. It 
was occupied by a journeyman house-painter and his wife, who 
had been married several years, but whose only child had died 
about six months before, since which loss things had not been 
going on so well between them. Some natures cannot bear 
sorrow; it makes them irritable, and instead of drawing them 
closer to their own, tends to isolate them. When she entered, 
she found the woman crying, and the man in a lurid sulk. 

“ What is the matter ? ** she asked, no doubt in her usual 
cheerful tone. 

** I little thought it would come to this when I married him,” 
sobbed the woman, while the man remained motionless and 
speechless on his chair, with his legs stretched out at full length 
before him. 

“ Would you mind telling me about it ? There may be some 
mistake, you know.” 

“There ain’t no mistake in thatl' said the woman, removing 
the apron she had been holding to her eyes, and turning a cheek 
towards Marion, upon which the marks of an open-handed blow 


2i8 The Vicar's Daughter^ 

were visible enough. I didn’t marry him to be knocked about 
like that” 

‘‘She calls that knocking about, do she? ” growled the hus¬ 
band. “ What did she go for to throw her cotton gownd in my 
teeth for, as if it was my blame she warn’t in silks and 
satins ? ” 

After a good deal of questioning on her part, and confused 
and recriminative statements on theirs, Marion made out the 
following as the facts of the case. 

For the first time since they were married, the wife had had 
an invitation to spend the evening with som« female friends. 
The party had taken place the night before, and although 
she had returned in ill-humour, it had not broken out until 
just as Marion entered the house. The cause was this: none 
of the guests were in a station much superior to her own, yet she 
found herself the only one who had not a silk dress ; hers was a 
print, and shabby. Now when she was married, she had a silk 
dress, of which, she said, her husband had been proud enough 
when they were walking together. But when she saw the last of 
it, she saw the last of its sort, for never another had he given 
her to her back; and she didn’t marry him to come down in 
the world—that she didn’t! 

“ Of course not,” said Marion; “ you married him because 
you loved him, and thought him the finest fellow you knew.” 

“ And so he was then, grannie. But just look at him now I” 

The man moved uneasily, but without bending his out¬ 
stretched legs. The fact was that since the death of the child 
he had so far taken to drink that he was not unfrequently the 
worse for it, which had been a rare occurrence before. 

“ It ain’t my fault,” he said, “ when work ain’t a-goin’, if I don’t 
dress her like a duchess. I’m as proud to see my wife rigged out 
as e’er a man on ’em—and that she know! and when she cast the 
contrairy up to me, I’m blowed if I could keep my hands off on 
her. She ain’t the woman I took her for, miss. She 'ave a 
temper!” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said Marion. ** Temper is a troublesome 


219 


Miss Clare amongst h r Friends* 

thing with all of us, and makes us do things we’re sorry for 
afterwards. Yodro. sorry for striking her—ain’t you now ?” 

There was no response. Around the sullen heart, silence 
closed again. Doubtless he would have given much to 
obliterate the fact, but he would not confess that he had been 
wrong. We are so stupid that confession seems to us to fix the 
wrong upon us, instead of throwing it, as it does, into the 
depths of the sea. 

“ I may have my temper,” said the woman, a little molli¬ 
fied at finding, as she thought, that Miss Clare took her 
part, but here am I slaving from morning to night to make 
both ends meet, and goin’ out every job I can get a-washin’ 
or a-charin’, and never ’avin’ a bit of fun from year’s end to 
year’s end—and him off to his club, as he calls it!—an’ it’s a 
club he’s like to blow out my brains with some night when he 
come home in a drunken fit; for it’s worse and worse he’ll get, 
miss, like the rest on ’em, till no woman could be proud, as once 
I was, to call him hers. And when I do go out to tea for once 
in a way, to be jeered at by them as is no better nor no worse’n 
myself, acause I ’ain’t got a husband as cares enough for me 
to dress me decent!—that do stick i’ my gizzard. I do dearly 
love to have neighbours think my husband care a bit about me, 
let-a-be ’at he don’t, one hair; and when he send me out like 
that—” 

Here she broke down afresh. 

“ Why didn’t ye stop at home then ? I didn’t tell ye to go,” 
he said fiercely, calling her a coarse name. 

“ Richard,” said Marion, “ such words are not fit for me to 
hear—still less for your own wife.” 

“ Oh ! never mind me; I’m used to sich,” said the woman 
spitefully. 

“ It’s a lie,” roared the man; “ I never named sich a word to 
ye afore. It do make me mad to hear ye. I drink the clothes 
off your back—do I ? If I bed the money, ye might go in 
velvet and lace for ought I cared 1 ” 


220 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

“ She would care little to go in gold and diamonds if you 
didn’t care to see her in them,” said Marion. 

At this the woman burst into fresh tears, and the man put on 
a face of contempt—the worst sign, Marion said, she had yet 
seen in him—not excepting the blow—for to despise is worse 
than to strike. 

I can’t help stopping my story here to put in a reflection that 
forces itself upon me. Many a man would regard with disgust 
the idea of striking his wife, who will yet cherish against her an 
aversion which is infinitely worse. The working man who 
strikes his wife, but is sorry for it, and tries to make amends 
by being more tender after it—a result which many a woman 
will consider cheap at the price of a blow endured—fs an 
immeasurably superior husband to the gentleman who shows 
his wife the most absolute politeness, but uses that very 
politeness as a breastwork to fortify himself in his disregard 
and contempt. 

Marion saw that while the tides ran thus high, nothing 
could be done—certainly at least in the way of argument. 
Whether the man had been drinking she could not tell, but 
suspected that must have a share in the evil of his mood. She 
went up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and said— 

“You’re out of sorts, Richard. Come and have a cup of 
tea, and I will sing to you.” 

“ I don’t want no tea.” 

“ You’re fond of the piano, though. And you like to hear 
me sing, don’t you ? ” 

“ Well, I do,” he muttered, as if the admission were forced 
from him. 

“Come with me, then.” 

He dragged himself up from his chair, and was about to 
follow her. 

“ You ain’t going to take him from me, grannie, after he’s 
been and struck me ? ” interposed his wife, in a tone half 
pathetic, half injured. 


22 i 


Miss Clare amongst her Friends. 

“ Come after us in a few minutes,” said Marion in a low voice, 
and led the way from the room. 

Quiet as a lamb Richard followed her up stairs. She made 
him sit in the easy-chair, and began with a low plaintive song, 
which she followed with other songs and music of a similar 
character. He neither heard nor saw his wife enter, and both 
sat for about twenty minutes without a word spoken. Then 
Marion made a pause, and the wife rose and approached her 
husband. He was fast asleep. 

“ Don’t wake him,” said Marion; “ let him have his sleep 
out. You go down and get the place tidy, and a nice bit of 
supper for him—if you can.” 

“ Oh ! yes; he brought me home his week’s wages this very 
right.” 

“ The whole? ” 

“Yes, grannie.” 

“ Then weren’t you too hard upon him ? Just think :—he 
had been trying to behave himself, and had got the better of 
the public-house for once, and come home fancying you’d be 
so pleased to see him; and you—” 

“ He’d been drinking,” interrupted Eliza. “ Only he said as 
how it was but a pot of beer he’d won in a wager from a mate 
of his.” 

“ Well, if, after that beginning, he yet brought you home his 
money, he ought to have had another kind of reception. To 
think of the wife of a poor man making such a fuss about a silk 
dress ! Why, Eliza, I never had a silk dress in my life ; and I 
don’t think I ever shall.” 

“ Laws, grannie ! Who’d ha’ thought that now ! ” 

“ You see I have other uses for my money than buying things 
for show.” 

“ That you do, grannie I But you see,” she added, somewhat 
inconsequently, “ we ’ain’t got no child, and Dick he take it ill 
of me, and don’t care to save his money ; so he never takes me 
out nowheres, and I do be so tired o’ stoppin’ indoors, every 
day and all day long, that it turns me sour, I do believe. I 


222 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

didn’t use to be cross-grained, miss. But laws ! I feels now as 
if I’d let him knock me about ever so, if only he wouldn’t say 
as how it was nothing to him if I was dressed ever so fine.” 

** You run and get his supper.” 

Eliza went, and Marion, sitting down again to her in¬ 
strument, improvised for an hour. Next to her New Testa¬ 
ment, this was her greatest comfort. She sung and prayed 
both in one then, and nobody but God heajd anything but the 
piano. Nor did it impede the flow of her best thoughts that 
in a chair beside her slumbered a weary man, the waves of 
whose evil passions she had stilled, and the sting of whose 
disappointment she had soothed, with the sweet airs and con¬ 
cords of her own spirit. Who could say what tender influences 
might not be stealing over him, borne on the fair sounds; for 
even the formless and the void was roused into life and joy by 
the wind that roamed over the face of its deep? No humanity 
jarred with hers. In the presence of the most degraded, she 
felt God there. A face, even if besotted, was a face only in 
virtue of being in the image of God. That a man was a man 
at all, must be because he was God’s. And this man was far 
indeed from being of the worst. With him beside her, she could 
pray with most of the good of having the door of her closet 
shut, and some of the good of the gathering together as well. 
Thus was love, as ever, the assimilator of the foreign, the har- 
monizer of the unlike; the builder of the temple in the desert, 
and of the chamber in the market-place. 

As she sat and discoursed with herself, she perceived that 
the woman was as certainly suffering from ennui as any fine lady 
in Mayfair. 

“Have you ever been to the National Gallery, Richard?” 
she asked, without turning her head, the moment she heard him 
move. 

“ No, grannie,” he answered with a yawn. “ Don’a’most 
know what sort of a place it be now. Waxwork, ain’t it ? ” 

“ No. It’s a great place full of pictures, many of them hum- 
dreds of years old. They’re taken care of by the government, 


Miss Clare amongst her Friends, 223 

just for people to go and look at. Wouldn’t you like to go and 
see them some day ? ” 

“ Donno as 1 should much.” 

” If I were to go with you now, and explain some of them 
to you? I want you to take your wife and me out for a 
holiday. You can’t think, you who go out to your work every 
day, how tiresome it is to be in the house from morning to 
night, especially at this time of the year when the sun’s shining, 
and the very sparrows trying to sing ! ” 

“She may go out when she pleases, grannie. I ain’t no 
tyrant.” 

“ But she doesn’t care to go without you. You wouldn’t have 
her like one of those slatternly women you see standing at 
the corners, with their fists in their sides and their elbows 
sticking out, ready to talk to anybody that comes in the way.” 

“ My wife was never none o’ sich, grannie. I knows her as 
well’s e’er a one, though she do ’ave a temper of her own.” 

At this moment Eliza appeared in the doorway, saying— 

“ Will ye come to yer supper, Dick ? I ha’ got a slice o’ ham 
an’ a hot tater for ye. Come along.” 

“ Well, I don’t know as I mind—^jest to please you^ Liza. I 
believe I ha’ been asleep in grannie’s cheer there, her a playin’ 
an’ a singin’, I make no doubt, like a werry nightingerl, bless 
her, an’ me a snorin’ all to myself, like a runaway locomotive ! 
Won’t you come and have a slice o’ the ’am, an’ a tater, 
grannie ? The more you ate, the less we’d grudge it.” 

“ I’m sure o’ that,” chimed in Eliza. “ Do now, grannie j 
please do.” 

“ I will, with pleasure,” said Marion; and they went down 
together. 

Eliza had got the table set out nicely, with a foaming jug of 
porter beside the ham and potatoes. Before they had finished, 
Marion had persuaded Richard to take his wife and her to the 
Natio al Gallery, the next day but one, which, fortunately for 
her purpose, was Whit Monday, a day whereon Richard, who 
was from the n orth, always took a holiday. 


224 


7he Vicar^s Daughtef. 

At theNational Gallery, the house-painter, in virtue of his craft, 
claimed the exercise of criticism, and his remarks were amusing 
enough. He had more than once painted a sign-board for a 
country inn, which fact formed a bridge between the covering of 
square yards with colour and the painting of pictures; and he 
naturally used the vantage-ground thus gained to enhance his 
importance with his wife and Miss Clare. He was rather a clever 
fellow, too, though as little educated in any other direction than 
that of his calling as might well be. 

All the woman seemed to care about in the pictures, was this 
or that something which reminded her, often remotely enough I 
dare say, of her former life in the country. Towards the close 
of their visit they approached a picture—one of Hobbima’s, I 
think—which at once riveted her attention. 

“ Look, look, Dick ! ” she cried. “ There’s just such a cart 
as my father used to drive to the town in. Farmer White always 
sent him when the mistress wanted anything and he didn’t care 
to go hisself. And, oh Dick ! there’s the very moral of the 
cottage we lived in ! Ain’t it a love now ?” 

“ Nice enough,” Dick replied. *‘But it warn’t there I seed 
you, Liza. It wur at the big house where you was housemaid, 
you know. That’ll be it, I suppose—away there like, over the 
trees.” 

They turned and looked at each other, and Marion turned 
away. When she looked again, they were once more gazing at 
the picture, but close together, and hand in hand like two 
children. 

As they went home in the omnibus, the two averred they had 
never spent a happier holiday in their lives; and from that day 
to this, no sign of their quarrelling has come to Marion’s 
knowledge. They are not only her regular attendants on 
Saturday evenings, but on Sunday evenings as well, when she 
holds a sort of conversation-sermon with her friends. 


Mr. MorUy. 


aas 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MR. MORLKY. 

As soon as my cousin Judy returned from Hastings, I called to 
see her, and found them all restored, except Amy, a child of 
between eight and nine. There was nothing very definite the 
matter with her, but she was white and thin, and looked wist¬ 
ful ; the blue of her eyes had grown pale, and her fair locks had 
nearly lost the curl which had so well suited her rosy cheeks. 
She had been her father’s pride for her looks, and her 
mother’s for her sayings—at once odd and simple. Judy that 
morning reminded me how, one night, when she was about 
three years old, some time after she had gone to bed, she had 
called her nurse, and insisted on her mother’s coming. Judy 
went, prepared to find her feverish ; for there had been jam¬ 
making that day, and she feared she had been having more than 
the portion which on such an occasion fell to her share. When 
she reached the nursery, Amy begged to be taken up that she 
might say her prayers over again. Her mother objected, but 
the child insisting, in that pretty petulant way which so pleased 
her father, she yielded, thinking she must have omitted some 
clause in her prayers, and be therefore troubled in her con¬ 
science. Amy accordingly kneeled by the bed-side in her 
night-gown, and having gone over all her petitions from 
beginning to end, paused a moment before the final word, 
and inserted the following special and peculiar request:— 
“And, p’ease God, give me some more jam to-morrow-day, 
for ever and ever. Amen.” 

I remember my father being quite troubled when he heard 
that the child had been rebuked for offering what was probably 
her very first genuine prayer. The rebuke however had littl« 

Q 


226 The Vicar^s DiMghter, 

effect on the equanimity of the petitioner, for she was fast asleep 
a moment after it. 

“There is one thing that puzzles and annoys me,” said 
Judy. ** I can’t think what it means. My husband tells me 
that Miss Clare was so rude to him the day before we left for 
Hastings, that he would rather not be aware of it any time she 
is in the house. Those were his very words. ‘ I will not in¬ 
terfere with your doing as you think proper,* he said, ‘ seeing 
you consider yourself under such obligation to her; and I 
should be sorry to deprive her of the a-dvantage of giving 
lessons in a house like this; but I wish you to be careful that 
the girls do not copy her manners. She has not by any means 
escaped the influence of the company she keeps.’ I was utterly 
astonished, you may well think; but I could get no further ex¬ 
planation from him. He only said that when I wished to have 
her society of an evening, I must let him know, because he 
would then dine at his club. Not knowing the grounds of his 
offence, there was little other argument I could use than the 
reiteration of my certainty that he must have misunderstood her. 
‘Not in the least,’ he said. ‘ I have no doubt she is to you 
everything amiable, but she has taken some unaccountable 
aversion to me, and loses no opportunity of showing it. And I 
don't think I deserve it.’ I told him I was so sure he did not 
deserve it, that I must believe there was some mistake. But he 
only shook his head and raised his newspaper. You must help 
me, little coz.” 

“ How am I to help you, Judy dear ?” I returned. “ I can’t 
interfere between husband and wife, you know. If I dared such 
a thing, he would quarrel with me too—and rightly.” 

“ No, no,” she returned, laughing; “ I don’t want your inter¬ 
cession. I only want you to find out from Miss Clare whether 
she knows how she has so mortally offended my husband. I 
believe she knows nothing about it. She has a rather abrupt 
manner sometimes, you know; but then my husband is not so 
silly as to have taken such deep offence at that Help me 
now—there’s a dear ! ” 


22/ 


Mr, Morley, 

I promised I would, and hence came the story I have already 
given. But Marion was so distressed at the result of her words, 
and so anxious that Judy should not be hurt, that she begged 
me, if I could manage it without a breach of verity, to avoid dis¬ 
closing the matter; especially seeing Mr. Morley himself judged 
it too heinous to impart to his wife. 

How to manage it I could not think. But at length we 
arranged it between us. I told Judy that Marion confessed to 
having said something which had offended Mr. Morley; that 
she was very sorry, and hoped she need not say that such had 
not been her intention; but that, as Mr. Morley evidently pre¬ 
ferred what had passed between them to remain unmentioned, 
to disclose it would be merely to swell the mischief. It would 
be better for them all, she requested me to say, that she should 
give up her lessons for the present; and therefore she hoped 
Mrs. Morley would excuse her. When I gave the message 
Judy cried, and said nothing. When the children heard that 
Marion was not coming for a while, Amy cried, the other girls 
looked very grave, and the boys protested. 

I have already mentioned that the fault I most disliked in 
those children was their incapacity for being petted. Some¬ 
thing of it still remains, but of late I have remarked a con¬ 
siderable improvement in this respect. They have not only 
grown in kindness, but in the gift of receiving kindness. I 
cannot but attribute this, in chief measure, to their illness and 
the lovely nursing of Marion. They do not yet go to their 
mother for petting, and from myself will only endure it, but 
they are eager after such crumbs as Marion, by no means 
lavish of it, will vouchsafe them. 

Judy insisted that I should let Mr. Morley hear Marion’s 
message. 

But the message is not to Mr. Morley,’* I said. “ Marion 
would never have thought of sending one to him.” 

“ But if I ask you to repeat it in his hearing, you will not 
refuse?” 

To this I consented; but I fear she was disappointed 
Q 2 


22S 


The Vicar^s Daughter. 

in the result. Her husband only smiled sarcastically, drew in 
his chin, and showed himself a little more cheerful than 
usual 

One morning about two months after, as I was sitting in the 
drawing-room, with my baby on the floor beside me, I was 
surprised to see Judy’s brougham pull up at the little gate— 
for it was early. When she got out, I perceived at once that 
something w^as amiss, and ran to open the door. Her eyes 
were red, and her cheeks ashy. The moment we reached the 
drawang-room, she sunk on the couch and burst into tears. 

“Judy ! ” I cried, “ what is the matter ? Is Amy worse ? ” 

“ No, no, cozzy dear; but we are ruined. We haven’t a 
penny in the world. The children will be beggars.” 

And there were the gay little horses champing their bits at 
the door, and the coachman sitting in all his glory, erect and 
impassive 

I did my best to quiet her, urging no questions. With 
difficulty I got her to swallow a glass of wine, after which, with 
many interruptions and fresh outbursts of misery, she managed 
to let me understand that her husband had been speculating, 
and had failed. I could hardly believe myself awake. Mi. 
Morley was the last man I should have thought capable either 
of speculating, or of failing in it if he did. 

Knowing nothing about business, I shall not attempt to ex¬ 
plain the particulars. Coincident failures amongst his corre¬ 
spondents had contributed to his fall. Judy said he had not 
been like himself for months, but it was only the night before that 
he had told her they must give up their house in Bolivar Square, 
and take a small one in the suburbs. For anything he could 
see, he said, he must look out for a situation. 

“Still you may be happier than ever, Judy. I can tell you 
that happiness does not depend on riches,” I said, though I 
could not help crying with her. 

“ It’s a different thing though, after you’ve been used to 
them,” she answered. “ But the question is of bread for my 
children, not of putting down my carriage.” 


Mr, 


229 


She rose hurriedly. 

“Where are you going? Is there anything I can do for 
you ? ” I asked. 

“ Nothing,” she answered. “ I left my husband at Mr. 
Baddeley’s. He is as rich as Croesus, and could write him a 
cheque that would float him.” 

“ He’s too rich to be generous, I’m afraid,” I said. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” she asked. 

“ If he be so generous, how does it come that he is so rich ? ” 

“ Why, his father made the money.” 

“ Then he most likely takes after his father. Percivale says 
he does not believe a huge fortune was ever made of nothing 
without such pinching of one’s self and such scraping of others, 
or else such speculation, as is essentially dishonourable.” 

“ He stands high,” murmured Judy hopelessly. 

“ Whether what is dishonourable be also disreputable depends 
on how many there are of his own sort in the society in which 
he moves.” 

“ Now, coz, you know nothing to his discredit, and he*s our 
last hope.” 

“ I will say no more,” I answered. “ I hope I may be quite 
wrong. Only I should expect nothing of him^' 

When she reached Mr. Baddeley’s, her husband was gone. 
Having driven to his counting-house, and been shown into his 
private room, she found him there with his head between his 
hands. The great man had declined doing anything for him, 
and had even rebuked him for his imprudence, without wasting 
a thought on the fact that every penny he himself possessed 
was the result of the boldest speculation on the part of his 
father. A very few days only would elapse before the falling 
due of certain bills must at once disclose the state of his affairs. 

As soon as she had left me, Percivale not being at home, I 
put on my bonnet, and went to find Marion. I must tell 
her everything tt at caused me either joy or sorrow ; and besides, 
she had all the right that love could give to know of Judy’s 
distress. I knew all her engagements, and therefore where 


230 The Vicat^s Daughter. 

to find her; and sent in my card, with the pencilled intimation 
that I would wait the close of her lesson. In a few minutes she 
came out and got into the cab. At once I told her my sad 
news. 

“ Could you take me to Cambridge Square to my next en¬ 
gagement ? ” she said. 

I was considerably surprised at the cool way in which she 
received the communication, but of course I gave the necessary 
directions. 

Is there anything to be done ? ” she asked, after a pause. 

I know of nothing,” I answered. 

Again she sat silent for a few minutes. 

“ One can’t move without knowing all the circumstances and 
particulars,” she said at length. “And how to get at them? 
He wouldn’t make a confidante of she said, smiling sadly. 

“ Ah! you little think what vast sums are concerned in sucl 
a failure as his ! ” I remarked, astounded that one with he^^ 
knowledge of the world should talk as she did. 

“ It will be best,” she said, after still another pause, “ to go¬ 
to Mr. Blackstone. He has a wonderful acquaintance with 
business for a clergyman, and knows many of the City people.’* 

“ What could any clergyman do in such a case ? ” I returned. 
“ For Mr. Blackstone, Mr. Morley would not accept even con¬ 
solation at his hands.” 

“ The time for that is not come yet,” said Marion. “ We 
must try to help him some other way first. We will, if we can, 
make friends with him by means of the very Mammon that 
has all but ruined him.” 

She spoke of the great merchant just as she might of Richard, 
or any of the bricklayers or mechanics whose spiritual condition 
she pondered that she might aid it 

“ But what could Mr. Blackstone do ? ’* I insisted. 

“ All I should want of him would be to find out for me what 
Mr. Morley’s liabilities are, and how much would serve to tide 
him over the bar of h’s present difficulties. I suspect he has 
few friends who would risk anything for him. I understand 


231 


Mr, Morley. 

he is no favourite in the City; and if friendship do not come 
in, he must be stranded.—You believe him an honourable man 
—do you not ? ” she asked abruptly. 

“ It never entered my head to doubt it,” I replied. 

The moment we reached Cambridge Square she jumped out, 
ran up the steps, and knocked at the door. I waited, wonder¬ 
ing if she was going to leave me thus without a farewell. 
When the door was opened, she merely gave a message to the 
man, and the same instant was again in the cab by my side. 

“ Now I am free 1 ” she said, and told the man to drive to 
Mile End. 

“ I fear I can't go with you so far, Marion,” I said. “ I 
must go home—I have so much to see to, and you can do 
quite as well without me. I don’t know what you intend, but 
please don’t let anything come out. I can trust you^ but—” 

“ If you can trust me, I can trust Mr. Blackstone. He is 
the most cautious man in the world. Shall I get out and take 
another cab ? ” 

“ No. You can drop me at Tottenham Court Road, and I 
will go home by omnibus. But you must let me pay the cab.” 

“ No, no ; I am richer than you : 1 have no children. What 
fun it is to spend money for Mr. Morley, and lay him under 
an obligation he will never know I ” she said, laughing. 

The result of her endeavours was that Mr. Blackstone, by a 
circuitous succession of introductions, reached Mr. Morley’s 
confidential clerk, whom he was able so far to satisfy concerning 
his object in desiring the information, that he made him a full 
disclosure of the condition of affairs, and stated what sum would 
be sufficient to carry them over their difficulties; though, he 
added, the greatest care, and every possible reduction of ex¬ 
penditure for some years, would be indispensable to their 
complete restoration. 

Mr. Blackstone carried his discoveries to Miss Clare, and 
she to Lady Bernard. 

“ My d^ar Marion,” said Lady Bernard, ** this is a serious 
matter you suggest. The man may be honest, and yet it may 


232 


The Vicaf^s Daughter^ 

be of no use trying to help him. I don’t want to bolster him 
up for a few months in order to see my money go after his. 
That’s not what I’ve got to do with it. No doubt I could lose 
as much as you mention, without being crippled by it, for I 
hope it’s no disgrace in me to be rich, as it’s none in you to 
be poor; but 1 hate waste, and I will not be guilty of it. If 
Mr. Morley will convince me and any friend or man of busi¬ 
ness to whom I may refer the matter, that there is good proba¬ 
bility of his recovering himself by means of it, then, and not 
till then, I shall feel justified in risking the amount For as 
you say, it would prevent much misery to many besides that 
good-hearted creature Mrs. Morley and her children. It is 
worth doing if it can be done—not worth trying if it can’t” 

“ Shall I write for you, and ask him to come and see you ? *’ 
No, my dear. If I do a kindness, I must do it humbly. 
It is a great liberty to take with a man to offer him a kindness. 
I must go to him. I could not use the same freedom with a 
man in misfortune as with one in prosperity. I would have such 
a one feel that his money or his poverty made no difference to 
me; and Mr. Morley wants that lesson, if any man does. 
Besides, after all, I may not be able to do it for him, and then 
he would have good reason to be hurt if I had made him dance 
attendance on me.” 

The same evening Lady Bernard’s shabby one-horse- 
brougham stopped at Mr. Morley’s door. She asked to see 
Mrs. Morley, and through her had an interview with her hus¬ 
band. Without circumlocution, she told him that if he would 
lay his affairs before her and a certain accountant she named, 
to use their judgment regarding them in the hope of finding 
it possible to serve him, they would wait upon him for that 
purpose at any time and place he pleased. Mr. Morley ex¬ 
pressed his obligation—not very warmly, she said—^repudiating 
however the slightest objection to her ladyship’s knowing now 
what all the world must know the next day but one. 

Early the following morning. Lady Bernard and rhe ac¬ 
countant met Mr. Morley at his place in the City, and by three 


Mr, Morley. 233 

o’clock in the afternoon 15,000/. were handed in to his account 
at his banker’s. 

The carriage was put down, the butler, one of the footmen, 
and the lady’s-maid were dismissed, and the household arrange¬ 
ments fitted to a different scale. 

One consequence of this chastisement, as of the preceding, 
was, that the whole family drew yet more closely and lovingly 
together; and I must say for Judy that after a few weeks of 
what she called poverty, her spirits seemed in no degree the 
worse for the trial. 

At Marion’s earnest entreaty no one told either Mr. or Mrs. 
Morley of the share she had had in saving his credit and social 
position. For some time she suffered from doubt as to whether 
she had had any right to interpose in the matter, and might not 
have injured Mr. Morley by depriving him of the discipline of 
poverty; but she reasoned with herself that, had it been 
necessary for him, her efforts would have been frustrated; and 
reminded herself that, although his commercial credit had 
escaped, it must still be a considerable trial to him to live in 
reduced style. 

But that it was not all the trial needful for him, was soon 
apparent; for his favourite Amy began to pine more rapidly, 
and Judy saw that, except some change speedily took place, 
they could not have her with them long. The father, however, 
refused to admit the idea that she was in danger. I suppose 
he felt as if, were he once to allow the possibility of losing 
her, from that moment there would be no stay between her and 
the grave: it would be a giving of her over to death. But what¬ 
ever Dr. Brand suggested was eagerly followed. When the chills 
of autumn drew near, her mother took her toVentnor; but 
little change followed, and before the new year she was gone. 
It was the first death beyond that of an infant they had had in 
their family, and took place at a time when the pressure of 
business obligations rendered it impossible for her father to be 
out of London ; he could only go to lay her in the earth, and 
bring back his wife. Judy had never seen him weep before. 


234 


The Vtcar^s Daughter. 

Certainly I never saw such a change on a man. He was 
literally bowed with grief, as if he bore a material burden upon 
his back. The best feelings of his nature, unimpeded by any 
jar to his self-importance or his prejudices, had been able to 
spend themselves on the lovely little creature j and I do not 
believe any other suffering than the loss of such a child could 
have brought into play that in him which was purely human. 

He was at home one morning, ill for the first time in his life, 
when Marion called on Judy. While she waited in the drawing¬ 
room, he entered. He turned the moment he saw her, but 
had not taken two steps towards the door, when he turned 
again, and approached her. She went to meet him. He held 
out his hand. 

“ She was very fond of you. Miss Clare,” he said. “ She 
was talking about you, the very last time I saw her. Let by¬ 
gones be by-gones between us.” 

“ I was very rough and rude to you, Mr. Morley, and I am 
very sorry,” said Marion. 

“ But you spoke the truth,” he rejoined. ‘‘ I thought I was 
above being spoken to like a sinner, but I don’t know now 
why not” 

He sat down on a couch, and leaned his head on his hand. 
Marion took a chair near him, but could not speak. 

“ It is very hard,” he murmured at length. 

Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,” said Marion. 

“That may be true in some cases, but I have no right to 
believe it applies to me. He loved the child, I would fain 
believe, for I dare not think of her either as having ceased to 
be, or as alone in the world to which she has gone. You do 
thmk, Miss Clare, do you not, that we shall know our friends 
in another world ? ” 

J believe,” answered Marion, “ that God sent you that 
qhild for the express purpose of enticing you back to himself; 
aiid if I believe anything at all, I believe that the gifts of God 
are without repentance.” 

Whether or not he understood her s'he could not tell, for at 


Mr. M or ley. 235 

this point Judy came in. Seeing them togethei, she would 
have withdrawn again, but her husband called her, with more 
tenderness in his voice than Marion could have imagined 
belonging to it. 

“ Come, my dear. Miss Clare and I were talking about 
our little angel. I didn’t think ever to speak of her again, but 
I fear I am growing foolish. All the strength is out of me, and 
I feel so tired—so weary of everything! ” 

She sat down beside him, and took his hand. Marion crept 
away to the children. An hour after Judy found her in the 
nursery, with the youngest on her knee, and the rest all about 
her. She was telling them that we were sent into this world 
to learn to be good, and then go back to God from whom we 
came, like little Amy. 

“ When I go out to-mowwow,” said one little fellow, about 
four years old, “ I’ll look up into the sky vewy hard, wight up; 
and then I shall see Amy, and God saying to her, ‘ Hushaby, 
poo’ Amy ! You bette’ now, Amy? ’ Shan’t I, Mawion ?” 

She had taught them to call her Marion. 

“ No, my pet; you might look and look all day long, and 
every day, and never see God or Amy.” 

Then they ain't there ! ” he exclaimed indignantly. 

“ God is there anyhow,” she answered; “ only you can’t see 
him that way.” 

“ I don’t care about seeing God,” said the next elder; it’s 
Amy I want to see. Do tell me, Marion, how we are to see 
Amy. It’s too bad if we’re never t y see her again; and I don’t 
think it’s fair.” 

I will tell you the only way I know. When Jesus was in 
the world, he told us that all who had clean hearts should see 
God. That’s how Jesus himself saw God.” 

“ It’s Amy, I tell you, Marion—it’s not God I want to see,” 
insisted the one who had last spoken. 

“ Well, my dear, but how can you see Amy if you can’t even 
see God ? If Amy be in God’s arms, the first thing in order 
to find her, is to find God. To be good is the only way to get 


2^6 The Vicat^s Daughter^ 

near to anybody. When you’re naughty, Willie, you can't get 
near your mamma, can you ? ” 

“ Yes, I can. I can get close up to her." 

“ Is that near enough ? Would you be quite content with 
that ? Even when she turns away her face and won’t look at 
you ? ’’ 

The little caviller was silent. 

“ Did you ever see God, Marion ? " asked one of the girls. 

She thought for a moment before giving an answer. 

‘*No,’’ she said. ** I’ve seen things just after he had done 
them; and I think I’ve heard him speak to me; but I’ve never 
seen him yet.’’ 

“ Then you’re not good, Marion,’’ said the free-thinker of 
the group. 

“ No ; that’s just it But I hope to be good some day, and 
then I shall see him.’’ 

“ How do you grow good, Marion ? ’’ asked the girl 
God is always trying to make me good,” she answered; 
“ and I try not to interfere with him.” 

“ But sometimes you forget, don’t you ? " 

‘‘ Yes, I do.” 

“ And what do you do then ? ” 

“ Then I’m sorry and unhappy, and begin to try again.” 

“ And God don’t mind much, does he ? ” 

He minds very much until I mind ; but after that he for¬ 
gets it all—takes all my naughtiness and throws it behind his 
back, and won’t look at it” 

“ That’s very good of God,” said the reasoner,—but with 
such a self-satisfied air in his approval, that Marion thought it 
time to stop. 

She came straight to me, and told me, with a face perfectly 
radiant, of the alteration in Mr. Morley’s behaviour to her, and 
what was of much more consequence, the evident change that 
had begun to be wrought in him. 

I am not prepared to say that he has as yet shown a very 
shining light, but that some change has passed is evident in 


A Strange Text. 337 

the whole man of him. I think the eternal wind must now be 
getting in through some chink or other which the loss of his 
child has left behind. And if the change were not going on, 
surely he would ere now have returned to his wallowing in 
the mire of Mammon, for his former fortune is, I understand, 
all but restored to him. 

I fancy his growth in goodness might be known and measured 
by his progress in appreciating Marion. He still regards her 
as extreme in her notions; but it is curious to see how, as 
they gradually sink into his understanding, he comes to adopt 
them as, and even to mistake them for, his own. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A STRANGE TEXT. 

For some time after the events last related, things went on 
pretty smoothly with us for several years. Indeed, although 1 
must confess that what I said in my haste, when Mr. S. wanted 
me to write this book, namely, that nothing had ever happened 
to me worth telling, was by no means correct, and that I 
have found out my mistake in the process of writing it, yet, on 
the other hand, it must be granted that my story could never 
have reached the mere bulk required if I had not largely 
drawn upon the history of my friends to supplement my own. 
And it needs no prophetic gift to foresee that it will be the 
same to the end of the book. The lives of these friends how¬ 
ever have had so much to do with all that is most precious to 
me in our own life, that if I were to leave out only all that 
did not immediately touch upon the latter, the book, whatever 
it might appear to others, could not possibly then appear to 
myiielf anything like a real representation of my actual life 


23S The Vicar's Daughter, 

and experiences. The drawing might be correct, but the 
colour— ? 

What with my children, and the increase of social duty re¬ 
sulting from the growth of acquaintance—occasioned in part 
by my success in persuading Percivale to mingle a little more 
with his fellow-painters—my heart and mind and hands were 
all pretty fully occupied; but I still managed to see Marion 
two or three times a week, and to spend about so many hours 
with her, sometimes alone, sometimes with her friends as well 
Her society did much to keep my heart open and to pre¬ 
vent it from becoming selfishly absorbed in its cares for 
husband and children. For love which is only concentrating 
its force, that is, which is not at the same time widening its 
circle, is itself doomed, and for its objects ruinous, be those 
objects ever so sacred. God himself could never be content 
that his children should love him only; nor has he allowed the 
few to succeed who have tried after it: perhaps their divinest 
success has been their most mortifying failure. Indeed, for ex¬ 
clusive love, sharp suffering is often sent as the needful cure— 
needful to break the stony crust which, in the name of love for 
one’s own, gathers about the divinely glowing core—a crust 
which, promising to cherish by keeping in the heat, would yet 
gradually thicken until all was crust; for truly, in things of 
the heart and spirit, as the warmth ceases to spread, the 
molten mass within ceases to glow, until at length, but for the 
divine care and discipline, there would be no love left for even 
spouse or child—only for self—which is eternal death. 

For some time I had seen a considerable change in Roger. 
It reached even to his dress. Hitherto, when got up for 
dinner he was what I was astonished to hear my eldest boy the 
other day call “a howling swell,” but at other times he did 
not even escape remark—not for the oddity merely, but the 
slovenliness of his attire. He had worn, for more years than I 
dare guess, a brown coat, of some rich-looking stuff, whose 
long pile was stuck together in many places with spots and 
dabs of paint, so that he looked like our long-haired Bedlington 


239 


A Strange Text, 

terrier Fido, towards the end of the week in muddy weather. 
This was now discarded, so far at least as to be hung up in his 
brother’s study, to be at hand when he did anything for him 
there, and replaced by a more civilized garment of tweed, of 
which he actually showed himself a little careful; while, if his 
necktie was red, it was of a very deep and rich red, and he had 
seldom worn one at all before; and his tall brigand-looking felt- 
hat was exchanged for one of half the altitude, which he did not 
crush on his head with quite as many indentations as its surface 
could hold. He also began to go to church with us sometimes. 

But there was a greater and more significant change than 
any of these. We found that he was sticking more steadily to 
work. I can hardly say his work, for he was a Jack-of-all-trades, 
as I have already indicated. He had a small income, left him 
by an old maiden aunt, with whom he had been a favourite, 
w’hich had hitherto seemed to do him nothing but harm, 
enabling him to alternate fits of comparative diligence with fits 
of positive idleness. I have said also, I believe, that, although 
he could do nothing thoroughly, application alone was wanted to 
enable him to distinguish himself in more than one thing. His 
forte was engraving on wood ; and my husband said that, if he 
could do so well with so little practice as he had had, he must 
be capable of becoming an admirable engraver. To our de¬ 
light then, we discovered, all at once, that he had been work¬ 
ing steadily for three months for the Messrs. D., whose place 
was not far from our house. He had said nothing about it to 
his brother, probably from having good reason to fear that he 
would regard it only as a spurt. Having now however executed 
a block which greatly pleased himself, he had brought a proof 
impression to show Percivale; who, more pleased with it than 
even Roger himself, gave him hearty congratulation, and told 
him it would be a shame if he did not bring his execution in 
that art to perfection—from which, judging by the present 
specimen, he said it could not be far off. The words brought 
into Roger’s fact^ an expression of modest gratification which 
it rejo ced me to behold: he accepted Percivale’s approbation 


240, The Vicar*s Daughter, 

more like a son than a brother, with a humid glow in his eyes 
and hardly a word on his lips. It seemed to me that the child 
in his heart had begun to throw off the swaddling clothes 
which foolish manhood had wrapped around it, and the germ 
of his being was about to assert itself I have seldom indeed 
seen Percivale look so pleased. 

“ Do me a dozen as good as that,*' he said, “ and I’ll have the 
proofs framed in silver-gilt.” 

It has been done, but the proofs had to wait longer for the 
frame than Percivale for the proofs. 

But he need have held out no such bribe of brotherly love, 
for there was another love already at work in himself more 
than sufficing to the affair. But I check myself: who shall 
say what love is sufficing for this or for that ? Who with the 
most enduring and most passionate love his heart can hold, 
will venture to say that he could have done without the love of 
a brother? Who will say that he could have done without the 
love of the dog whose bones have lain mouldering in his garden 
for twenty years ? It is enough to say that there was a more 
engrossing, a more marvellous love at work. 

Roger always however took a half-holiday on Saturdays, and 
now generally came to us. On one of these occasions I said to 
him:— 

“ Wouldn’t you like to come and hear Marion play to her 
friends this evening, Roger?” 

“ Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he answered, and 
we went. 

It was delightful. In my opinion Marion is a real artist. 1 
do not claim for her the higher art of origination—though I 
could claim for her a much higher faculty than the artistic 
itself. I suspect for instance that Moses was a greater man 
than the writer of the book of Job, notwithstanding that the 
poet moves me so much more than the divine politician. 
Marion combined in a wonderful way the critical faculty with 
the artistic—which two, however much of the one may be 
found without the other, are mutually essential to the perfection 


A Strange Text. 241 

of each. While she uttered from herself she heard with her 
audience; while she played and sung with her own fingers 
and mouth, she at the same time listened with their ears, 
knowing what they must feel, as well as what she meant to 
utter. And hence it was, I think, that she came into such 
vital contact with them even through her piano. 

As we returned home, Roger said, after some remark of 
mine of a cognate sort— 

“ Does she never try to teach them anything, Ethel ? ” 

“ She is constantly teaching them whether she tries or not,*' 
I answered. “ If you can make any one believe that there is 
something somewhere to be trusted, is not that the best lesson 
you can give him ? That can be taught only by being such 
that people cannot but trust you.’* 

“I didn’t need to be told that,” he answered. ‘‘What I 
want to know is, whether or not she ever teaches them by word 
of mouth—an ordinary and inferior mode, if you will.” 

“ If you had ever heard her, you would not call hers an 
ordinary or inferior mode,” I returned. “ Her teaching is the 
outcome of her life, the blossom of her being, and therefore 
has the whole force of her living truth to back it.” 

“ Have I offended you, Ethel ? ” he asked. 

Then I saw that, in my eagerness to glorify my friend, I had 
made myself unpleasant to Roger—a fault of which I had been 
dimly conscious before now. Marion would never have fallen 
into that error. She always made her friends feel that she was 
with them, side by side with them and turning her face in the 
same direction, before she attempted to lead them further. 

I assured him that he had not offended me, but that I lud 
been foolishly backing him from the front, as I once heard an 
Irishman say—some of whose bulls were very good mikh- 
cows. 

“ She teaches them every Sunday evening,** I added. 

“ Have you ever heard her ? ’* 

“ More than once. And I never heard anything like it.** 

“Could you take me with you sometime?” he asked, 

R 


142 The Vicar's Daughter, 

in assumed tone of ordinary interest, out of which bowevcf 
he could not keep a slight tremble. 

don’t know.—I don’t quite see why I shouldn't.—And 

yet—” 

“ Men do go,” urged Roger, as if it were mere half- 
indifferent suggestion. 

“ Oh, yes; you would have plenty to keep you in coun¬ 
tenance ! ” I returned ; “—men enough—and worth teaching 
too—some of them at least! ” 

“Then I don’t see why she should object to me for another.” 

“ I don’t know that she would. You are not exactly of the 
sort—you know—that—” 

“ I don’t see the difference. I see no essential difference, 
at least. The main thing is, that I am in want of teaching—as 
much as any of them. And if she stands on circumstances, I 
am a working man as much as any of them—perhaps more 
than most of them Few of them work after midnight, I 
should think, as I do net unfrequently.” 

“ Still, all admitted, I should hardly like— 

“ I didn’t mean you were to take me without asking her,” 
he said. “ I should never h.ive dreamed of that.” 

“ And if I were to ask her, I am certain she would refuse. 
But,” I added, thinking over the matter a little, “ I will take 
you without asking her. Cojne with me to-morrow night I 
don’t think she will have the heart to send you away.” 

“ I will,” he answered, with more gladness in his voice than 
he intended, I think, to manifest itself. 

We arranged that he should call for me at a certain hour. 

I told Percivale, and he pretended to grumble that 1 was 
taking Roger instead of him. 

“ It was Roger and not you that made the request,” I re¬ 
turned. “ I can’t say I see why you should go because Roger 
asked. A woman’s logic is not equal to that.” 

“ I didn’t mean he wasn’t to go. But why shouldn’t I be 
done good to as well as he ? ” 

“ If you really want to go,” I said, “ I don’t see why you 


A Strange Text. 243 

shouldn't It’s ever so much better than going to any church I 
know of—except one. But we must be prudent I can’t take 
more than one the first time. We must get the thin edge of the 
wedge in first.” 

‘‘And you count Roger the thin edge?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I’ll tell him so.” 

“ Do. —The thin edge, mind, without which the thicker the 
rest is, the more useless!—Tell him that, if you like. But, 
seriously, I quite expect to take you there too the Sunday 
after.” 

Roger and I went. Intending to be a little late, we found 
when we reached the house, that, as we had wished, the class 
was already begun. In going up the stairs, we saw very few of 
the grown inhabitants, but in several of the rooms, of which the 
doors stood open, elder girls taking care of the younger chil¬ 
dren — in one, a boy nursing the baby with as much interest as 
any girl could have shown. We lingered on the way, wish 
ing to give Marion time to get so thoroughly into her work 
t’".at she could take no notice of our intrusion. When we 
reached the last stair we could at length hear her voice, of 
which the first words we could distinguish, as we still ascended, 
were— 

“ I will now read to you the chapter of which I spoke.” 

The door being open, we could hear well enough, although 
she was sitting where we could not see her. We would not 
show ourselves until the reading was ended : so much at least 
we might overhear without offence. 

Before she had read many words, Roger and I began to cast 
strange looks on each other. For this was the chapter she read: 

“And Joseph, wheresoever he went in the city, took the 
Lord Jesus with him, where he was sent for to work, to make 
gates, or milk-pails, or sieves, or boxes; the Lord Jesus was 
with him wheresoever he went. And as often as Joseph had 
anything in his work to make longer or shorter, or wider or 
narrower, the Lord Jesus would stretch his hand towards it 

R 2 


244 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

And presently it became as Joseph would have it. So that 
he had no need to finish anything with his own hands, for 
he was not very skilful at his carpenter’s trade. 

“On a certain time the king of Jerusalem sent for him, and 
said, I would have thee make me a throne of the same dimen¬ 
sions with that place in which I commonly sit Joseph obeyed, 
and forthwith began the work, and continued two years in the 
king’s palace before he finished it And when he came to fix 
it in its place, he found it wanted two spans on each side of the 
appointed measure. Which when the king saw, he was very 
angry with Joseph ; and Joseph afraid of the king’s anger, went 
to bed without his supper, taking not anything to eat Then 
the Lord Jesus asked him what he was afraid of. Joseph re¬ 
plied, Because I have lost my labour in the work which I have 
been about these two years. Jesus said to him. Fear not, 
neither be cast down; do thou lay hold on one side of the 
throne, and I will the other, and we will bring it to its just 
dimensions. And when Joseph had done as the Lord Jesus 
said, and each of them had with strength drawn his side, the 
throne obeyed, and was brought to the proper dimensions of 
the place : which miracle when they who stood by saw, they 
were astonished, and praised God. The throne was made of 
the same wood, which was in being in Solomon’s time, namely, 
wood adorned with various shapes and figures.*’ 

Her voice ceased, and a pause followed. 

“We must go in now,” 1 whispered. 

“ She’ll be going to say something now; just wait till she’s 
started,” said Roger. 

“ Now what do you think of it ? ” asked Marion, in a medita¬ 
tive tone. 

We crept within the scope of her vision, and stood. A voice 
which I knew, was at the moment replying to her question. 

“/don’t think it’s much of a chapter, that, grannie.” 

The speaker was the keen-faced, elderly man, with iron^ 
grey whiskers, who had come forward to talk to Percivale on 
that miserable evening when we were out searching for little 


A Strange Text, 245 

Ethel. He sat near where we stood by the door, between 
two respectable-looking women, who had been listening to the 
chapter as devoutly as if it had been of the true gospel. 

“ Sure, grannie, that ain’t out o’ the Bible ? ” said another 
voice, from somewhere farther off. 

“ We’ll talk about that presently,” answered Marion. ** I 
want to hear what Mr. Jarvis has to say to it: he’s a carpenter 
himself, you see—a joiner, that is, you know.” 

All the faces in the room were now turned towards Jarvis. 

“Tell me why you don’t think much of it, Mr. Jarvis,” said 
Marion. 

“ ’Tain’t a bit likely,” he answered. 

“What isn’t likely?” 

“ Why, not one single thing in the whole kit of it. And first 
and foremost, ’tain’t a bit likely the old man ’ud ha’ been sich a 
duffer.” 

“ Why not ? There must have been stupid people then as 
well as now.” 

“ Not his father,” said Jarvis decidedly. 

“ He wasn’t but his step-father, like, you know, Mr. Jarvis,” 
remarked the woman beside him in a low voice. 

“Well, he’d never ha’ been hers then. She wouldn't ha' 
had a word to say to him'^ 

“ I have seen a good—and wise woman too—with a dull 
husband,” said Marion. 

“ You know you don’t believe a word of it yourself, grannie,” 
said still another voice. 

“ Besides,” she went on without heeding the interruption, 
“ in those times, I suspect, such things were mostly managed 
by the parents, and the woman herself had little to do with 
them.” 

A murmur of subdued indignation arose—chiefly of female 
V’oices. 

“ Well, they wouldn’t then,” said Jarvis. 

“ He might have been rich,” suggested Marion. 

“ I’ll go bail he never made the money then,” said Jarvis. 


246 The Vicar's Daughter. 

An old idget! I don’t believe sich a feller ’ud ha’ been lei 
marry a woman like her—I don’t.** 

“ You mean you don’t think God would have let him ? ” 

“ Well, that’s what I do mean, grannie. The thing couldn’t 
ha’ been—nohow.” 

“ I agree with you quite. And now I want to hear more of 
what in the story you don’t consider likely.” 

“ Well, it ain’t likely sich a workman ’ud ha’ stood so high i’ 
the trade, that the king of Jerusalem would ha’ sent for him 
of all the tradesmen in the town to make his new throne for 
him. No more it ain’t likely—and let him be as big a duffer 
as ever was, to be a jiner at all-that he’d ha’ been two 
year at work on that there throne—an’ a carvin’ of it in figures 
too !—and never found out it was four spans too narrer for the 
place it had to stand in. Do ye ’appen to know now, grannie, 
how much is a span ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Do you know, Mrs. Percivale ? ” 

The sudden reference took me very much by surprise ; but 
I had not forgotten happily the answer I received to the same 
question, when anxious to realize the monstrous height of 
Goliath. 

“I remember my father telling me,” I replied, “that it w^as as 
much as you could stretch between your thumb and little 
finger.” 

“There!” cried Jarvis triumphantly, parting the extreme 
members of his right hand against the back of the woman in 
front of him—“ that would be seven or eight inches ! Four 
times that ?—Two foot and a half at least! Think of that 1 ” 

“ I admit the force of both your objections,” said Marion. — 
“And now to turn to a more important part of the story—what 
do you think of the miracle attributed to our Lord in it ? What 
do you think of the way in which according to it he got his 
father out of his evil plight ? ” 

I saw plainly enough that she was quietly advancing towards 
some point in her view—^guiding the talk thitk^erward, steadily, 
without haste or effort 


247 


A Strange Text, 

Before Jarvis had time to make any repl}’, the blind man, 
mentioned in a former chapter, struck in, with the tone of one 
who had been watching his opportunity. 

“/make more o’ that pint than the t’other,” he said. “A 
man as is a duffer may well make a mull of a thing, but a man 
as knows what he’s up to can’t I don’t make much o’ them 
miracles, you know, grannie—that is, I don’t know, and what 
I don’t know, I won’t say as I knows ; but what I’m sure of is 
this here one thing—that man or boy as could work a miracle, 
you know, grannie, wouldn’t work no miracle as there wasn’t 
no good working of.” 

“ It was to help his father,” suggested Marion. 

Here Jarvis broke in almost with scorn. 

“ To help him to pass for a clever fellow when he was as great 
a duffer as ever broke bread ! ” 

“ I’m quite o’ your opinion, Mr. Jarvis,” said the blind man. 
“ It ’ud ha’ been more like him to tell his father what a duffer 
he was, and send him home to learn his trade.” 

“ He couldn’t do that, you know,” said Marion gently. 
“ He couldrtt use such words to his father, if he were ever so 
stupid.” 

“ His step-father, grannie,” suggested the woman who had 
corrected Jarvis on the same point She spoke very modestly, 
but was clearly bent on holding forth what light she had. 

“ Certainly, Mrs. Renton ; but you know he couldn’t be rude 
to any one—leaving his own mother’s husband out of the 
question.” 

“ True for you, grannie,” returned the woman. 

“ I think though,” said Jarvis, “ for as hard as he’d ha* found 
it, it would ha’ been more like him to set to work and teach 
his father, than to scamp up his mulls.” 

“ Certainly,” acquiesced Marion. “ To hide any man’s faults, 
and leave him not only stupid but in all probability obstinate 
and self satisfied, would not be like him. Suppose our Lord 
had had such a father, what do you think he would have 
done?” 


248 The Vicar^s Daughter. 

“ He’d ha’ done all he could to make a man of him,” answered 
Jarvis. 

“ Wouldn’t he have set about making him comfortable then, 
in spite of his blunders?” said Marion. 

A significant silence followed this question. 

Well, no ; not first thing—I don’t think,” returned Jarvis, 
at length. “ He’d ha’ got him o’ some good first, and gone in 
to make him comfortable arter.” 

“ Then I suppose you would rather be of some good and un¬ 
comfortable than of no good and comfortable?” said Marion. 

“I hope so, grannie,” answered Jarvis; and “/ would;” 
“ Yes“ That I would,” came from several voices in the 
little crowd, showing what an influence Marion must have 
already had upon them. 

“ Then,” she said—and I saw by the light which rose in her 
eyes that she was now coming to the point—“ Then surely it 
must be worth our while to bear discomfort in order to grow 
of some good ! Mr. Jarvis has truly said that if Jesus had had 
such a father, he would have made him of some good before he 
made him comfortable: that is just the way your Father in 
heaven is acting with you. Not many of you would say you 
are of much good yet; but you would like to be better. And 
yet—put it to yourselves—do you not grumble at everything 
that comes to you that you don’t like, and call it bad luck, 
and worse—yes, even when you know it comes of your own 
fault, and nobody else’s? You think if you had only this or 
that to make you comfortable, you would be content; and you 
call it very hard that So-and-so should be getting on well, and 
saving money, and you down on your luck, as you say. Some 
of you even grumble that your neighbour’s children should be 
healthy when yours are pining. You would allow that you are 
not of much good yet, but you forget that to make you com¬ 
fortable as you are, would be the same as to pull out Joseph’s mis¬ 
fitted thrones and doors, and make his mis-shapen buckets over 
again for him. That you think so absurd that you can’t 


A Strange Text, I49 

believe the story a bit; but you would be helped out of all 
ycur troubles, even those you bring on yourselves, not thinking 
what the certain consequence would be—namely that you would 
grow of less and less value, until you were of no good either 
to God or man. If you think about it, you will see that I 
am right. When, for instance, are you most willing to do 
right ? When are you most ready to hear about good things ? 
When are you most inclined to pray to God ? When you 
have plenty of money in your pockets, or when you are 
in want ? When you have had a good dinner, or when you 
have not enough to get one ? When you are in jolly health, 
or when the life seems ebbing out of you in misery and pain ? 
No matter that you may have brought it on yourselves ; it is no 
less God’s way of bringing you back to him, for he decrees that 
suffering shall follow sin ; it is just then you most need it; and 
if it drives you to God, that is its end, and there will be an 
end of it. The prodigal was himself to blame for the want 
that made him a beggar at the swine’s trough ; yet that want was 
the greatest blessing God could give him, for it drove him home 
to his father. 

“ But some of you will say you are no prodigals; nor 
is it your fault that you find yourselves in such difficulties that 
life seems hard to you. It would be very wrong in me to set 
myself up as your judge, and to tell you that it was your fault. If 
it is, God will let you know it. But if it be not your fault, it 
does not follow that you need the less to be driven back to 
God. It is not only in punishment of our sins that we are 
made to suffer : God’s runaway children must be brought back 
to their home and their blessedness—back to their Father in 
heaven. It is not always a sign that God is displeased with 
us when he makes us suffer. ‘ Whom the Lord loveth, he chas- 
tencth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If ye endure 
chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons.’ But instead of 
talking more about it, I must take it to myself, and learn not 
to grumble when my plans fail,” 


250 


The Vtcar^s Daughter, 

“That’s whsityou never goes and does, grannie,” growled a 
voice from somewhere. 

I learned afterwards it w'as that of a young tailor who 
was constantly quarrelling with his mother. 

“ I think I have given up grumbling at my circumstances,” 
she rejoined ; “but then I have nothing to grumble at in them. 
I haven’t known hunger or cold for a great many years now. 
But I do feel discontented at times when I see some of you 
not getting better so fast as I should like. I ought to have 
patience, remembering how patient God is with my conceit 
and stupidity, and not expect too much of you. Still, it can’t 
be wrong to wish that you tried a good deal more to do what 
he wants of you. Why should his children not be his 
friends? If you would but give yourselves up to him, you 
would find his yoke so easy, his burden so light 1 But you do 
it only half, and some of you not at all. 

“ Now how'ever that we have got a lesson from a false gospel, 
we may as well get one from the true.” 

As she spoke, she turned to her New Testament which lay 
beside her. But Jarvis interrupted her. 

“ Where did you get that stuff you was a readin’ of to us, 
grannie ? ” he asked. 

“ The chapter I read to you,” she answered, “ is part of a 
pretended gospel, called, ‘ The First Gospel of the Infancy of 
Jesus Christ.’ I can’t tell you who wrote it, or how it came to be 
written. All I can say is, that, very early in the history of the 
church there were people who indulged themselves in inventing 
things about Jesus, and seem to have had no idea of the im¬ 
portance of keeping to facts, or, in other words, of speaking 
and writing only the truth. All they seem to have cared about 
was the gratifying of their own feelings of love and veneration ; 
and so they made up tales about him, in his honour, as they 
supposed, no doubt, just as if he had been a false god of the 
Greeks or Romans. It is long before some people learn to 
speak the truth, even after they know it is wicked to lie. Per¬ 
haps, however, they did not expect their stories to be received 


A Strange Text 251 

as facts, intending them only as a sort of recognized fiction 
about him—amazing presumption at the best.’^ 

‘‘ Did anybody then ever believe the likes of that, grannie ? ” 
asked Jarvis. 

“ Yes; what I read to you seems to have been believed 
within a hundred years after the death of the apostles. There 
are several such writings—with a great deal of nonsense in them 
—which were generally accepted by Christian people for many 
hundreds of years.” 

“ I can’t imagine how anybody could go inwentuating such 
things ! ’’said the blind man. 

“ It is hard for us to imagine. They could not have seen 
how their inventions would, in la<^er times, be judged anything 
but honouring to him in whose honour they wrote them. 
Nothing, be it ever so well invented, can be so good as the 
bare truth. Perhaps, however, no one in particular invented 
some of them, but the stories grew, just as a report often does 
amongst yourselves. Although everybody fancies he or she 
is only telling just what was told to him or her, yet, by degrees, 
the pin’s-point of a fact is covered over with lies upon lies, 
almost everybody adding something, until the report has grown 
to be a mighty falsehood. Why, you had such a story your¬ 
selves, not so very long ago, about one of your best friends ! 
One comfort is, such a story is sure not to be consistent with 
itself; it is sure to show its own falsehood to any one who is 
good enough to doubt it, and who will look into it, and 
examine it well. You don’t, for instance, want any other 
proof than the things themselves to show you that what I have 
just read to you can’t be true.” 

But then it puzzles me to think how anybody could believe 
them,” said the blind man. 

“ Many of the early Christians were so childishly sim¬ 
ple that they would believe almost anything that was told 
them. In a time when such nonsense could be written, it 
is no great wonder there should be many who could believe 
it* 


353 The Vicay^s Daughter. 

"Then what was their faith worth,” said the blind man, "if 
they believed false and true all the same ? ” 

“ Worth no end to them,” answered Marion, with eagerness ; 
" for all the false things they might believe about him, could 
not destroy the true ones, or prevent them from believing in 
Jesus himself, and bettering their ways for his i ake. And as they 
grew better and better by doing what he told them, they would 
gradually come to disbelieve this and that foolish or bad thing.” 

“ But wouldn’t that make them stop believing in him alto¬ 
gether ? ” 

" On the contrary, it would make them hold the firmer to 
all that they saw to be true about him. There are many people, I 
presume, in other countries, who believe those stories still; 
but all the Christians I know, have cast aside every one of 
those writings, and keep only to those we call the gospels. 
To throw away what is not true, because it is not true, will 
always help the heart to be truer; will make it the more 
anxious to cleave to what it sees must be true. Jesus remon¬ 
strated with the Jews that they would not of themselves judge 
what was right; and the man who lets God teach him is made 
abler to judge what is right a thousand fold.” 

" Then don’t you think it likely this much is true, grannie ” 
—said Jarvis, probably interested in the question, in part at 
least, from the fact that he was himself a carpenter—"that he 
worked with his father, and helped him in his trade ? ” 

" I do indeed,” answered Marion. “ I believe that is the 
one germ of truth in the whole story. It is possible even that 
some incidents of that part of his life may have been handed 
down a little way, at length losing all their shape^ however, and 
turning into the kind of thing I read to you. Not to mention 
that they called him the carpenter, is it likely he who came 
down for the express purpose of being a true man, would see 
his father toiling to feed him and his mother and his brothers 
and sister, and go idling about, instead of putting to his hand 
to help him ? Would that have been hke him ? ” 

"Certainly not,” said Mr. Jarvis. 


A Strange TexU 253 

But a doubtful murmur came from the blind man, which 
speedily took shape in the following remark : 

“ I can’t help thinkin’, grannie, of one time—you read it to 
us not long ago—when he laid down in tlie boat and went fast 
asleep, takin’ no more heed o’ them a slavin’ o’ theirselves to 
death at their oars, than if they’d been all comfortable like 
hisself: that wasn’t much like takin’ of his share—was it 
now ? ” 

“John Evans,” returned Marion with severity, “ it is quite 
right to put any number of questions, and express any number 
of doubts you honestly feel; but you have no right to make 
remarks you would not make if you were anxious to be as 
fair to another as you would have another be to you. Have 
you considered that he had been working hard all day long, 
and was in fact worn out? You don’t think what hard work 
it is, and how exhausting, to speak for hours to great multi¬ 
tudes—and in the open air too, where your voice has no help 
to make it heard. And that’s not all ; for he had most likely 
been healing many as well; and I believe every time the })ower 
went out of him to cure, he suffered in the relief he gave; it 
left him weakened—with so much the less of strength to support 
his labours—so that, even in his very body he took our iniquities 
and bare our infirmities. Would you then blame a weary man, 
whose perfect faith in God rendered it impossible for him to 
fear anything, that he lay down to rest in God’s name, and 
left his friends to do their part for the redemption of the world 
in rowing him to the other side of the lake—a thing they were 
doing every other day of their lives? You ought to consider 
before you make such remarks, Mr. Evans. And you forget 
also that, the moment they called him, he rose to help them.” 

“ And find fault with them,” interposed Evans, rather 
viciously, I thought. 

“ Yes; for they were to blame for their own trouble, and 
ought to send it away.” 

“ What ! To blame for the storm ? How could they send 
that away ? ” 


254 The Vicai^s Daughter, 

Was it the storm that troubled them then ? It was their 
own fear of it. The storm could not have troubled them if 
they had had faith in their Father in heaven.” 

“They had good cause to be afraid of it anyhow.” 

“He judged they had not, for he was not afraid himself. 
You judge they had, because you would have been afraid.” 

“He could help himself, you see.” 

“ And they couldn’t trust either him or his Father, notwith¬ 
standing all he had done to manifest himself and his Father to 
them. Therefore he saw that the storm about them was not 
the thing that most required rebuke. The miserable faith¬ 
lessness within them was a far worse thing, and the cause of 
all the fear. For children of the great God to believe that 
they were at the mercy of winds and waves, puffs of air, and 
splashes of water, was most miserable and degrading. Did he 
not do well to find fault with them, John Evans?—The fact 
is,” she went on after a short pause, “ that at this very moment 
you are 'trying yourself open to the same rebuke. If they had 
known him, the disciples would not have been afraid. If you 
had known him, you would not thus lightly have brought such 
a charge against him. To you also belongs the word— O thou 
of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt 

“ I never pretended to much o’ the sort,” growled Evans. 
“ Quite the contrary.” 

“ And why ? Because, like an honest man, you wouldn’t 
pretend to what you hadn’t got But if you carried your 
honesty far enough, you would have taken pains to under¬ 
stand our Lord first Like his other judges, you condemn 
him beforehand. You will not call that honesty ? ” 

“ I don’t see what right you’ve got to badger me like this 
afore a congregation o’ people,” said the blind man rising in 
indignation. “ If I ’ain’t got my heye-sight, I ha’ got my feelin’s.” 

“ And do you think he has no feelings, Mr. Evans ? You 
have spoken evil of him ; I have spoken but the truth of you ! ” 

“Come^ come, grannie,” said the blind man, quailing a 
little, “ don’t talk squash. I’m a livin’ man afore the heyes o* 


A StraJige Text 2$$ 

this here company, an* he ain’t nowheres. Bless you, ^ don’t 
mind ! ” 

“ He minds so much,” returned Marion in a subdued voice, 
which seemed to tremble with coming tears, “that he will 
never rest until you think fairly of him. And he is here now, 
for he said—‘I am with you always, to the end of the world,* 
and he has heard every word you have been saying against 
him. He isn’t angry like me, but your words may well make 
him feel sad—for your sake, John Evans—that you should be 
so unfair.” 

She leaned her forehead on her hand, and was silent. A 
subdued murmur arose. The blind man, having stood irre¬ 
solute for a moment, began to make for the door, saying— 

“ I think I’d better go. I ain’t wanted here.” 

“ If you are an honest man, Mr. Evans,” returned Marion, 
rising, “ you will sit down and hear the case out.” 

With a waving, fin-like motion of both his hands, Evans sank 
into his seat, and spoke no word. 

After but a moment’s silence, she resumed as if there had 
been no interruption. 

“ That he should sleep then during the storm was a very 
different thing from declining to assist his father in his work¬ 
shop ; just as the rebuking of the sea was a very different 
thing from hiding up his father’s bad work in miracles. Had 
that father been in danger, he might perhaps have aided him 
as he did the disciples. But—” 

“ Why do you sa) perhaps^ grannie ? ” interrupted a bright¬ 
eyed boy who sat on the hob of the empty grate. “ Wouldn’t 
he help his father as soon as his disciples ? ” 

“ Certainly -- if it was good for his father—certainly not, if it 
was not good for him—therefore I say perhaps. - But now,” she 
went on, turning to the joiner, “ Mr. Jarvis, will you tell me 
whether you think the work of the carpenter’s son would have 
been in any way distinguishable from that of another man?” 

“Well, I don’t know, grannie. He wouldn’t want to be 
putting of a private mark upon it. He wouldn’t want to be 


25^ The Vicar's Daughter, 

showing of it off—would he ? He’d use his tools like another 
man, anyhow.” 

“All that we may be certain of. He came to us a man, to 
live a man’s life and do a man’s work. But just think a 
moment: I will put the question again : Do you suppose you 
would have been able to distinguish his work from that of 
any other man ? ” 

A silence followed. Jarvis was thinking. He and the 
blind man were of the few that can think. At last his face 
brightened. 

“ Well, grannie,” he said, “ I think it would be very diffi¬ 
cult in anything easy, but very easy in anything difficult.” 

He laughed,—for he had not perceived the paradox before 
uttering it. 

“ Explain yourself, if you please, Mr. Jarvis. I am not sure 
that I understand you,” said Marion. 

“I mean that, in an easy job, which any fair workman 
could do well enough, it would not be easy to tell his work. 
But where the job was difficult, it would be so much better 
done, that it would not be difficult to see the better hand 
in it” 

“ I understand you then to indicate that the chief distinction 
would lie in the quality of the work—that whatever he did he 
would do in such a thorough manner, that, over the whole of 
what he turned out—as you would say— the perfection of the 
work would be a striking characteristic. Is that it ? ” 

“ That is what I do mean, grannie.” 

“ And that is just the conclusion I had come to myself.’ 

“ / should like to say just one word to it, grannie, so be you 
won’t cut up crusty,” said the blind man. 

“ If you are fair, I shan’t be crusty, Mr. Evans. At least I 
hope not,” said Marion. 

“ Well, it’s this: Mr. Jarvis he say as how the jiner-work 
done by Jesus Christ would be better done than e’er anot'ier 
man s—tip-top-fashion, and there would lie the differ. Now 
it do seem to me as I’ve got no call to come to that ere con- 


A Strange Text. 257 

elusion. You been a tellin’ on us, grannie, I donno how long 
now, as how Jesus Christ was the son of God, and that he 
come to do the works of God—down here like, afore our faces, 
that we might see God at work, by way of. Now I ha* 
nothin* to say agin that; it may be, or it mayn’t be— I can*t 
tell. But if that be the way on it, then I don’t see how Mr. 
Jarvis can be right; the two don’t curryspond—not by no 
means. For the works o’ God—there ain’t one on ’em as I 
can see downright well managed—tip-top jiner’s work, as I 
may say; leastways,—now stop a bit, grannie; don’t trip a man 
up, and then say as he fell over his own dog,—leastways, I 
don’t say about the moon an’ the stars an’ that; I dessay the 
sun he do get up the werry moment he’s called of a mornin’, 
an’ the moon when she ought to for her nightwork;—I ain’t 
no ’stronomer strawnry, and I ain’t heerd no complaints about 
them; but I do say as how, down here, we ha’ got most un¬ 
common bad weather more’n at times; and the walnuts they 
turns out, every now an’ then, full o’ mere dirt; an’ the oranges 
awful. There ’ain’t been a good crop o’ hay, they tells me, for 
many’s the year. An’ i’ furren parts, what wi’ earthquakes an’ 
wolcanies an’ lions an’ tigers, an’ savages as eats their wisiters, 
an’ chimley-pots blowin’ about, an’ ships goin’ down, an’ fathers 
o’ families choked an’ drownded an’ burnt i’ coal-pits by the 
hundred—it do seem to me that if his jinerin’ hadn’t been tip¬ 
top, it would ha’ been but like the rest on it. There, grannie! 
Mind I mean no offence; an’ I don’t doubt you ha’ got some- 
think i’ your weskit pocket as ’ll turn it all topsy-turvy in a 
moment. AnyhowT won’t purtend to nothink, and that’s how 
it look to me.” 

“ I admit,” said Marion, “ that the objection is a reasonable 
one. But why do you put it, Mr. Evans, in such a triumphant 
way, as if you were rejoiced to think it admitted of no answer, 
and believed the world would be ever so much better off if the 
storms and the tigers had it all their own way, and there were 
no God to look after things ? ” 

“Now you ain’t fair to me, grannie. Not ’avin’ of my heyfr 

t 


258 The Vkat^s Daughter. 

sight like the rest on ye, I may be a bit fond of a harguyment \ 
but I tries to hit fair, and when I hears what ain’t logic, I can 
no more help cornin’ down upon it, than I can help breathin’ the 
air o’ heaven. And why shouldn’t I ? There ain’t no law agin 
a harguyment. An’ more an’ over, it do seem to me as how 
you and Mr. Jarvis is wrong i* this harguyment.” 

“ If I was too sharp upon you, Mr. Evans, and I may have 
been,” said Marion, “ I beg your pardon.” 

“ It’s granted, grannie.” 

** I don’t mean, you know, that I give in to what you say— 
not one bit.” 

** I didn’t expect it of you. I’m a-waitin’ here for you to 
knock me down.” 

“ I don’t think a mere victory is worth the breath spent 
upon it,” said Marion. “ But we should all be glad to get or 
give more light upon any subject, if it be by losing ever so many 
arguments. Allow me just to put a question or two to Mr. 
Jarvis, because he’s a joiner himself—and that’s a great com¬ 
fort to me to-night:—What would you say, Mr. Jarvis, of a 
master who planed the timber he used for scaffolding, and tied 
the cross pieces with ropes of silk ? ” 

I should say he was a fool, grannie—not only for losin’ 
of his money and his labour, but for weakenin’ of his scaffoldin’ 
—summat like the old throne-maker i’ that chapter, I should 
say.” 

“What’s the object of a scaffold, Mr. Jarvis?” 

“To get at something else by means of—say build a house.” 

“Then so long as the house was going up all right, the 
probability is there wouldn’t be much amiss with the scaf¬ 
fold? You will allow that I suppose.” 

“ Certainly—pro'.'ided it stood till it was taken down.” 

“ And now, Mr. Evans,” she said next, turning to the blind 
man, “ 1 am going to take the liberty of putting a question Of 
two to you.” 

“ All right, grannie. Fire away.” 

“Will you tell me then what the object of this world is?” 


A Strange Text. 259 

“ Well, most people makes it their object to get money, ana 
make thcirselves comfortable.’* 

“ But you don’t think that is what the world was made for ? ** 

“ Oh ! as to that, how should I know, grannie ? And not 
knowin’, I won’t say.” 

“ If you saw a scaffold,” said Marion, turning again to Jarvis, 
“would you be in danger of mistaking it for a permanent 
erection ? ’* 

“Nobody wouldn’t be such a fool,” he answered. “The 
look of it would tell you that.” 

“You wouldn’t complain then if it should be a little out of 
the square, and if there should be no windows in it ? ’* 

Jarvis only laughed. 

“ Mr. Evans,” Marion went on, turning again to the blind 
man, “ do you think the design of this world was to make men 
comfortable ? ” 

“If it was, it don’t seem to ha’ succeeded,” answered 
Evans. 

“ And you complain of that—don’t you ? ” 

“ Well, yes, rather ”—said the blind man, adding, no doubt 
as he recalled the former part of the evening’s talk—“for 
harguyment, ye know, grannie.” 

“ You think, perhaps, that God, having gone so far to make 
this world a pleasant and comfortable place to live in, might 
have gone farther and made it quite pleasant and comfortable 
for everybody ? ” 

“ Whoever could make it at all could ha’ done that, 
grannie.” 

“ Then as he hasn’t done it, the probability is he didn’t 
mean to do it ? ” 

“Of course. That’s what I complain of.” 

“ Then he meant to do something else ? ” 

“ It looks like it.” 

“ The whole affair has an unfinished look, you think ? ” 

“ I just do.” 

‘ * What if it were not meant to stand then ? What if it were 


26o The Vtcar^s Daughter, 

meant only for a temporary assistance in carrying out some¬ 
thing finished and lasting, and of unspeakably more /mpor- 
tance ? Suppose God were building a palace for you, and had 
set up a scaffold, upon which he wanted you to help him ;— 
would it be reasonable in you to complain that you didn’t find 
the scaffold at all a comfortable place to live in ?—that it 
was draughty and cold ? This world is that scaffold ; and if 
you were busy carrying stones and mortar for the palace, you 
would be glad of all the cold to cool the glow of your 
labour.” 

“I’m sure I work hard enough when I get a job as my 
heyesight will enable me to do,” said Evans, missing the spirit 
of her figure. 

“ Yes; I believe you do. But what will all the labour of a 
workman who does not fall in with the designs of the builder 
come to ? You may say you don’t understand the design; 
will you say also that you are under no obligation to put so 
much faith in the builder—who is said to be your God and 
Father—as to do the thing he tells you ? Instead of working 
away at the palace, like men, will you go on tacking bits of 
matting and old carpet about the corners of the scaffold to keep 
the wind off, while that same wind keeps tearing them away 
and scattering them ? You keep trying to live in a scaffold, 
which not all you could do to all eternity would make a house 
of. You see what I mean, Mr. Evans ? ” 

“ Well, not ezackly,” replied the blind man. 

“ I mean that God wants to build you a house whereof the 
walls shall be goodness: you want a house whereof the walls 
shall be comfort. But God knows that such walls cannot be 
built—that that kind of stone crumbles away in the foolish 
workman’s hands. He would make you comfortable; but 
neither is that his first object, nor can it be gained without the 
first, which is to make you good. He loves you so much that 
he would infinitely rather have you good and uncomfortable— 
for then he could take you to his heart as his own children— 
than comfortable and not good, for then he could not come 


A Strange Text 261 

near you, or give you anything he counted worth hi vmg for 

himself or worth giving to you.” 

“So,” said Jarvis, “you’ve just brought us round, grannie, 
to the same thing as before.” 

“ I believe so,” returned Marion. “ It comes to this, that 
when God would build a palace for himself to dwell in with 
his children, he does not want his scaffold so constructed that 
they shall be able to make a house of it for themselves, and 
live like apes instead of angels.” 

“ But if God can do anything he please,” said Evans, “he 
might as well make us good, and there would be an end 
of it.” 

“ That is just what he is doing,” returned Marion. “ Per* 
haps, by giving them perfect health and everything they wanted, 
with absolute good temper, and making them very fond of 
each other besides, God might have provided himself a people 
he would have had no difficulty in governing, and amongst 
whom, in consequence, there would have been no crime and 
no struggle or suffering. But I have known a dog with more 
goodness than that would come to. We cannot be good with¬ 
out having consented to be made good. God shows us the 
good and the bad; urges us to be good; wakes good thoughts 
and desires in us; helps our spirit with his spirit, our thought 
with his thought \ but we must yield; we must turn to him; 
we must consent, yes, try to be made good. If we could grow 
good without trying, it would be a poor goodness; ue should 
not be good after all ; at best we should only be not bad. God 
wants us to choose to be good, and so be partakers of his 
holiness; he would have us lay hold of him. He who has 
given his Son to suffer for us, will make us suffer too—bitterly, 
if needful—that we may bethink ourselves and turn to him. 
He would make us as good as good can be*^that is, perfectly 
good; and therefore will rouse us to take the needful hand in 
the work ourselves—rouse us by discomforts innumerable. 

“You see then, it is not inconsistent with the apparent 
imperfections of the creation around us, that Jesus should have 


262 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

done the best possible carpenter’s work ; foi those very imper¬ 
fections are actually through their imperfec tion the means of 
carrying out the higher creation God has in view, and at which 
he is working all the time. 

‘‘ Now let me read you what King David thought upon this 
question.” 

She read the hundred and seventh psalm. Then they had 
some singing, in which the children took a delightful part. I 
have seldom heard children sing pleasantly. In Sunday-schools 
I have always found their voices painfully harsh. But Marion 
made her children restrain their voices and sing softly, which 
had, she said, an excellent moral effect on themselves, all 
squalling and screeching, whether in art or morals, being 
ruinous to either. 

Towards the close of the singing, Roger and I slipped out. 
We had, all but tacitly, agreed it would be best to make no 
apology, but just vanish, and come again with Percivale the 
following Sunday. 

The greater part of the way home we w^alked in silence. 

“ What did you think of that, Roger ? ” I asked at length. 

“ Quite Socratic as to method,” he answered, and said no 
more. 

I sent a full report of the evening to my father, who was 
delighted with it, although of course much was lost in the re¬ 
porting of the mere words, not to mention the absence of her 
sweet face and shining eyes, of her quiet, earnest, musical 
voice. My father kept the letter, and that is how I am able to 
give the present report. 


About Servants, 


263 


CHAPTER XXXL 

ABOUT SERVANTS. 

I WENT to call on Lady Bernard the next day—for there was 
one subject on which I could better talk with her than with 
Marion, and that subject was Marion herself. In the course of 
our conversation I said that I had had more than usual need of 
such a lesson as she gave us the night before—I had been, and 
indeed still was, so vexed with my nurse. 

“What is the matter?” asked Lady Bernard. 

“ She has given me warning,” I answered. 

“ She has been with you some time—has she not ? • 

“ Ever since we were married.” 

“What reason does she give?” 

“ Oh 1 she wants to better herself ^ of course,” I replied—in 
such a tone, that Lady Bernard rejoined: 

“ And why should she not better herself? ” 

“ But she has such a false notion of bettering herself I I am 
confident what she wants will do anything but better her—if 
she gets it.” 

“ What is her notion then? Are you sure you have got at 
the real one ? ” 

“ I believe I have now. When I asked her first, she said 
she was very comfortable, and condescended to inform me that 
she had nothing against either me or her master, but thought 
it was time she was having more wages, for a friend of hers, 
who had left home a year after herself, was having two pounds 
more than she had.” 

“ It is very natural, and certainly not wrong, that she should 
wish for more wages.” 

“ I told her she need not have taken such a round-about 
way of asking for an advance, and said I would raise her 
wages with pleasure. But instead of receiving the announce- 


264 The Vtcar^s Daughter. 

ment with any sigii of satisfaction, she seemed put out by ft; 
and after some considerable amount of incoherence, blurted 
out that the place was dull, and she wanted a change. At 
length, however, I got at her real reason, which was simply am¬ 
bition : she wanted to rise in the world—to get a place where 
men-servants were kept—a more fashionable place in fact” 

“ A very mistaken ambition certainly,” said Lady Bernard, 
“but one which would be counted natural enough in any 
other line of life. Had she given you ground for imagining 
higher aims in her ? ” 

“ She had been so long with us that I thought she must have 
some regard for us.” 

“ She has probably a good deal more than she is aware of 
But change is as needful to some minds for their education as 
an even tenor of life is to others. Probably she has got all 
the good she is capable of receiving from you, and there may 
be some one ready to take her place for whom you will be able 
CO do more. However inconvenient it may be for you to 
change, the more young people who pass through your house 
the better.” 

“ If it were really for her good, I hope I shouldn’t mind.” 

“You cannot tell what may be needful to cause the seed 
you have sown to germinate. It may be necessary for her to 
pass to another class in the school of life, before she can realize 
what she learned in yours.” 

I was silent, for I was beginning to feel ashamed, and Lady 
Bernard went on. 

“When I hear mistresses lamenting over some favourite 
servant as marrying certain misery in exchange for a comfort¬ 
able home with plenty to eat and drink and wear, I always 
think of the other side to it, namely, how, through the instincts 
of his own implanting, God is urging her to a path in which, 
by passing through the fires and waters of suffering, she may 
be stung to the life of a true humanity. And such suffering is 
far more ready to work its perfect work on a girl who h'S 
passed through a family like yours.” 


About Servants. 


265 

“ I wcrtildn’t say a word to keep her if she were going to be 
married,” I said; “ but you will allow there is good reason 
to fear she will be no better for such a change as she desires.* 

“ You have good reason to fear, my child,” said Lady Bernard, 
smiling so as to take all sting out of the reproof—“ that you 
have too little faith in the God who cares for your maid as for 
you. It is not indeed likely that she will have such help as 
yours where she goes next; but the loss of it may throw her 
back on herself and bring out her individuality, which is her 
conscience. Still I am far from wondering at your fear for 
her—knowing well what dangers she may fall into. Shall I 
tell you what first began to open my eyes to the evils of a large 
establishment ? Wishing to get rid of part of the weight of 
my affairs, and at the same time to assist a relative who was 
in want of employment, I committed to him, along with larger 
matters, the oversight of my household expenses, and found 
that he saved me the whole of his salary. This will be easily 
understood from a single fact Soon after his appointment, he 
called on a tradesman to pay him his bill The man, taking 
him for a new butler, offered him the same discount he had 
been in the habit of giving his supposed predecessor—namely 
twenty-five per cent—a discount, I need not say, never in¬ 
tended to reach my knowledge any more than my purse. The 
fact was patent—I had been living in a hotel, of which I not 
only paid the rent, but paid the landlord for cheating me. 
With such a head to an establishment, you may judge what the 
members may become.” 

** I remember an amusing experience my brother-in-law Roger 
Percivale once had of your household,” I said. 

“ I also remember it perfectly,” she returned. “ That was 
how I came to know him. But I knew something of his family 
long before. I remember his grandfather a great buyer of 
pictures and marbles.” 

Lady Bernard here gave me the story from her point of view, 
but Roger’s narrative being of necessity the more complete, 1 
tell the tale as he told it me. 


266 


The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

At the time of the occurrence, he was assisting Mr. R, the 
weU-known sculptor, and had taken a share in both the model¬ 
ling and the carving of a bust of Lady Bernard’s father. When 
it was finished and Mr. F. was about to take it home, he asked 
Roger to accompany him and help him to get it safe into the 
house and properly placed. 

Roger and the butler between them carried it to the drawing¬ 
room, where were Lady Bernard and a company of her friends, 
whom she had invited to meet Mr. F. at lunch, and see the 
bust. There being no pedestal yet ready, Mr. F. made choice 
of a certain small table for it to stand upon, and then accom¬ 
panied her ladyship and her other guests to the dining-room, 
leaving Roger to uncover the bust, place it in the proper light, 
and do whatever more might be necessary to its proper effect 
on the company when they should return. As she left the 
room, Lady Bernard told Roger to ring for a servant to clear 
the table for him, and render what other assistance he might 
want. He did so. A lackey answered the bell, and Roger 
requested him to remove the things from the table. The man 
left the room, and did not return. Roger therefore cleared 
and moved the table himself, and with difficulty got the bust 
upon it Finding then several stains upon the pure half¬ 
transparency of the marble, he rang the bell for a basin of water 
and a sponge. Another man appeared, looked into the room, 
and went away. He rang once more, and yet another servant 
came. This last condescended to hear him, and, informing 
him that he could get what he wanted in the scullery, vanished 
in his turn. By this time Roger confesses to have been rather 
in a rage \ but what could he do ? Least of all allow Mr. F.’s 
work, and the likeness of her ladyship’s father to make its 
d^but with a spot on its nose; therefore, seeing he could not 
otherwise procure what was necessary, he set out in quest of 
the unknown appurtenances of the kitchen. 

It is unpleasant to find oneself astray, even in a moderately 
sized house, and Roger did not at all relish wandering about 
the huge place, with no finger-posts to keep him in its business* 


About Servantsi 


267 

thoroughfares, not to speak of directing him to the remotest 
recesses of a house “ full,’" as Chaucer says, “ of crenkles.** 
At last, however, he found himself at the door of the servants’ 
halL Two men were lying on their backs on benches, with 
their knees above their heads in the air; a third was engaged 
in emptying a pewter pot, between his draughts tossing facetiae 
across its mouth to a damsel who was removing the remains of 
some private luncheon ; and a fourth sat in one of the windows 
reading BelPs Life. Roger took it all in at a glance, while to 
one of the giants supine, or rather to a perpendicular pair 0 / 
white stockings, he preferred his request for a basin and a 
sponge. Once more he was informed that he would find whgt 
he wanted in the scullery. There was no time to waste on un 
availing demands, therefore he only begged further to be directed 
how to find it. The fellow, without raising his head or lower¬ 
ing his knees, jabbered out such instructions as, from the 
rapidity with which he delivered them, were, if not unintelligible, 
at all events incomprehensible, and Roger had to set out again 
on the quest, only not quite so bewildered as before. He 
found a certain long passage mentioned, however, and happily, 
before he arrived at the end of it, met a maid, who with the 
utmost civility gave him full instructions to find the place. The 
scullery-maid was equally civil, and Roger returned with basin 
and sponge to the drawing-room, where he speedily removed 
the too troublesome stains from the face of the marble. 

When the company re-entered, Mr. F. saw at once from the 
expression and bearing of Roger that something had happened 
to discompose him, and asked him what was amiss. Roger 
having briefly informed him, Mr. F. at once recounted the facts 
to Lady Bernard, who immediately requested a full statement 
from Roger himself, and heard the whole story. 

She walked straight to the bell, and ordered up every one of 
her domestics, from the butler to the scullery-maid. 

Without one hasty word, or one bodily sign of the anger she 
was in, except the flashing of her eyes, she told them she could 
not have had a suspicion that such insolence was possible in 


268 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

her house; that they had disgraced her in her own eyes, as 
having gathered such people about her; that she would not 
add to Mr. Percivalets annoyance by asking him to point out 
the guilty persons, but that they might assure themselves she 
would henceforth keep both eyes and ears open, and if the 
slightest thing of the sort happened again, she would most as¬ 
suredly dismiss every one of them at a moment^s warning. She 
then turned to Roger and said: 

“ Mr. Percivale, I beg your pardon for the insults you have 
received from my servants.” 

“ I did think,” she said, as she finished telling me the story, 
“ to dismiss them all on the spot, but was deterred by the fear 
of injustice. The next morning, however, four or five of them 
gave my housekeeper warning: I gave orders that they should 
leave the house at once, and from that day, I set about reducing 
my establishment. My principal objects were two—first, that 
my servants might have more work; and second, that I might 
be able to know something of every one of them; for one thing 
I saw—that until I ruled my own house well, I had no right 
to go trying to do good out of doors. I think I do know a 
little of the nature and character of every soul under my roof 
now; and I am more and more confident that nothing of real 
and lasting benefit can be done for a class except through per¬ 
sonal influence upon the individual persons who compose it— 
such influence I mean, as at the very least sets for Christianity, 


About Percivale. 


269 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

ABOUT PERCIVALE. 

I SHOULD like much, before in my narrative approaching a cer-* 
tain hard season we had to encounter, to say a few words 
concerning my husband, if I only knew how. I find women 
differ much, both in the degree and manner in which their feel¬ 
ings will permit them to talk about their husbands. I have 
known women set a whole community against their husbands 
by the way in which they trumpeted their praises; and I have 
known one woman set everybody against herself by the way in 
which she published her husband’s faults. I find it difficult to 
believe either sort. To praise one’s husband is so like praising 
oneself, that to me it seems immodest, and subject to the same 
suspicion as self-laudation \ while to blame one’s husband even 
justly and openly seems to me to border upon treachery itself. 
How then am I to discharge a sort of half duty my father has 
laid upon me by what he has said in The Seaboard Parish 
concerning my husband’s opinions ? My father is one of the 
few really large-minded men I have yet known; but I am not 
certain that he has done Percivale justice. At the same time, 
if he has not, Percivale himself is partly to blame, inasmuch 
as he never took pains to show my father what he was; for 
had he done so, ray father of all men would have understood 
him. On the other hand, this fault, if such it was, could have 
sprung only from my husband’s modesty, and his horror of 
possibly producing an impression on my father’s mind more 
favouiable than correct. It is all right now, however. 

Still my difficulty remains as to how I am to write about 
him. I must encourage myself with the consideration that 
none but our own friends, with whom, whether they understood 
us or not, we are safe, will know to whom the veiled narrative 
points. 


270 


The Vicar^s Daughter* 

But some acute reader may say,— 

“ You describe your husband’s picture : he will be known 
by that” 

In this matter I have been cunning—I hope not deceitful, 
inasmuch as I now reveal my cunning. Instead of describing 
any real picture of his, I have always substituted one he has 
only talked about. The picture actually associated with the 
facts related, is not the picture I have described. 

Although my husband left the impression on my father’." 
mind, lasting for a long time, that he had some definite repug 
nance to Christianity itself, I had been soon satisfied, perhaps 
from his being more open with me, that certain unworthy re¬ 
presentations of Christianity, coming to him with authority, 
had cast discredit upon the whole idea of it. In the first year 
or two of our married life we had many talks on the subject, 
and I was astonished to find what things he imagined to be 
acknowledged essentials of Christianity, which have no place 
whatever in the New Testament; and I think it was in pro¬ 
portion as he came to see his own misconceptions, that, although 
there was little or no outward difference to be perceived in him, 
I could more and more clearly distinguish an under-current of 
thought and feeling setting towards the faith which Christianity 
preaches. He said little or nothing even when I attempted 
to draw him out on the matter, for he was almost morbidly 
careful not to seem to know anything he did not know, or to 
appear what he was not. The most I could get out of him 
was—but I had better give a little talk I had with him on one 
occasion. It was some time before we began to go to Marion’s 
on a Sunday evening, and I had asked him to go with me to a 
certain little chapel in the neighbourhood. 

“ What 1 ” he said merrily ; “ the daughter of a clergyman be 
seen going to a conventicle ? ” 

“ If I did it, I would be seen doing it,” I answered. 

“ Don’t you know that the man is no conciliatory, or even 
mild dissenter, but a decided enemy to Church and State and 
all that ? ” pursued Percivale. 


About Percwale. 


271 

“I don^t care,” I returned. “I know nothing about it. 
What I know is, that he’s a poet and a prophet both in one. 
He stirs up my heart within me, and makes me long to be good. 
He is no orator, and yet breaks into bursts of eloquence such 
as none of the studied orators, to whom you profess so great 
an aversion, could ever reach.” 

“ You may well be right there. It is against nature for a 
speaker to be eloquent throughout his discourse, and the false 
will of course quench the true. I don’t mind going if you wish 
it. I suppose he believes what he says, at least.” 

“ Not a doubt of it. He could not speak as he does from 
less than a thorough belief.” 

“ Do you mean to say, Wynnie, that he is sure of everything 
—I don’t want to urge an unreasonable question—but is he 
sure that the story of the New Testament is in the main 
actual fact? I should be very sorry to trouble your faith, 
but—” 

“ My father says,” I interrupted, ‘‘ that a true faith is like 
the pool of Bethesda: it is when troubled that it shows its 
healing power.” 

“ That depends on where the trouble comes from, perhaps,** 
said Percivale. 

“ Anyhow,” I answered, “ it is only that which cannot be 
shaken that shall remain.” 

“ Well, I will tell you what seems to me a very common- 
sense difficulty. How is any one to be sure of the things there 
recorded? I cannot imagine a man of our time absolutely 
certain of them. If you tell me I have testimony, I answer, 
that the testimony itself requires testimony. I never even saw 
the people who bear it, have just as good reason to doubt their 
existence as that of him concerning whom they bear it, have 
positively no means of verifying it, and indeed have so little 
confidence in all that is called evidence, knowing how it can 
be twisted, that I should distrust any conclusion I might seem 
about to come to on the one side or the other. It does appear 
to me that if the thing were of God, he would have taken car* 


2/2 


The Vicat^s DaughteK 

that it should be possible for an honest man to place a hearty 
confidence in its record.’* 

He had never talked to me so openly, and I took it as a sign 
that he had been thinking more of these things than hitherto. 
I fek it a serious matter to have to answer such words, for 
how could I have any better assurance of that external kind 
than Percivale himself? That I was in the same intellectual 
position, however, enabled me the better to understand him. 
For a short time I was silent, while he regarded me with a 
look of concern—fearful, I fancied, lest he should have involved 
me in his own perplexity. 

“Isn’t it possible, Percivale,** I said, “that God may not 
care so much for beginning at that end ? ” 

“ I don’t quite understand you, Wynnie,” he returned. 

“ A man might believe every fact recorded concerning our 
Lord, and yet not have the faith in him that God wishes him 
to have.** 

“ Yes, certainly. But will you say the converse of that 
true?” 

“ Explain, please.** 

“ Will you say a man may have the faith God cares for with 
out the faith you say he does not care for ? ** 

“ I didn’t say that God does not care about our having as¬ 
surance of the facts; for surely if everything depends on those 
facts, much will depend on the degree of our assurance con¬ 
cerning them. I only expressed a doubt whether in the present 
age he cares that we should have that assurance first Perhaps 
he means it to be the result of the higher kind of faith which 
rests in the will.** 

“ I don’t at the moment see how the higher faith, as you call 
it, can precede the lower.** 

“ It seems to me possible enough. For what is the test of 
discipleship the Lord lays down? Is it not obedience? ‘If 
ye love me, keep my commandments.* ‘ If a man love me, he 
will keep my commandments.* ‘ I never knew you; depart 
from me, ye workers of iniquity.* Suppose a man feels in him- 


About Percivale. 


271 


self that he must have some saviour or perish; suppose he 
feels drawn, by conscience, by admiration, by early memories, 
to the form of Jesus dimly seen through the mists of ages; 
suppose he cannot be sure there ever was such a man, but 
reads about him, and ponders over the words attributed to him 
until he feels they are the right thing whether he said them or 
not, and that if he could but be sure there were such a being, 
he would believe in him with heart and soul; suppose also that 
he comes upon the words, ‘ If any man is willing to do the will 
of the Father, he shall know whether I speak of myself or he 
sent mesuppose all these things, might not the man then 
say to himself, ‘ I cannot tell whether all this is true, but I 
know nothing that seems half so good, and I will try to do the 
will of the Father in the hope of the promised knowledge’ ? Do 
you think God would or would not count that to the man for 
faith?” 

I had no more to say, and a silence followed. After a pause 
of some duration, Percivale said,— 

** I will go with you, my dear,” and that was all his answer. 
When we came out of the little chapel — the same into which 
Marion had stepped on that evening so memorable to her—we 
walked homeward in silence, and reached our own door ere a 
word was spoken. But when I went to take off my things, 
Percivale followed me into the room and said,— 

“ Whether that man is certain of the facts or not, I cannot 
tell yet; but I am perfectly satisfied he believes in the manner 
of which you were speaking—that of obedience, Wynnie. He 
must believe wuih his heart and will and life.” 

“ If so, he can well afford to wait for what light God will give 
him on things that belong to the intellect and judgment.” 

“ I would rather think,” he returned, “ that purity of life must 
react on the judgment, so as to make it likewise clear, and 
enable to recognize the true force of the evidence at command.” 
“ rhat is how my father came to believe,” I said. 

“ He seems to me to rest his conviction more upon external 
proof” 

T 


274 The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

“ That is only because it is easier to talk about He told me 
once that he was never able to estimate the force and weight of 
the external arguments until after he had believed for the very 
love of the eternal truth he saw in the story. His heart, he said, 
had been the guide of his intellect.” 

“That is just what I would fain believe. But oh, Wynnie, 
the pity of it if that story should not be true after all! ” 

“ Ah, my love ! ” I cried—“ that very word makes me 
surer than ever that it cannot but be true. Let us go on put¬ 
ting it to the hardest test j let us try it until it crumbles in our 
hands—try it by the touchstone of action founded on its 
equirements.” 

“There may be no other way,” said Percivale, after a 
;houghtful pause, “of becoming capable of recognizing the 
truth. It may be beyond the grasp of all but the mind that has 
thus yielded to it. There may be no contact for it with any but 
such a mind. Such a conviction then could neither be fore¬ 
stalled nor communicated. Its very existence must remaLa 
doubtful until it asserts itself. 1 see that.” 


My Second Terror* 


a ;5 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

MY SECOND TERROR. 

“ Please, ma’am, is Master Fido to carry Master Zohrab about 
by tlie back o’ the neck ? ” said Jemima in indignant appeal, one 
afternoon late in November, bursting into the study where I sat 
with my husband. 

Fido was our Bedlington terrier, which, having been reared 
by Newcastle colliers, and taught to draw a badger—whatever 
that may mean—I am hazy about it—had a passion for 
burrowing after anything buried. Swept away by the current of 
the said passion, he had with his strong fore-paws unearthed 
poor Zohrab, which, being a tortoise, had ensconced himself, 
as h^ thought, for the winter, in the earth at the foot of a lilac- 
tree ; but now, much to his jeopardy, from the cold and the 
shock of the surprise more than from the teeth of his friend, was 
being borne about the garden in triumph, though whether 
exactly as Jemima described may be questionable. Her indig¬ 
nation at the inroad of the dog upon the personal rights of the 
tortoise had possibly not lessened her general indifference to 
accuracy. 

Alarmed at the danger to the poor animal, of a kind from 
which his natural defences were powerless to protect him, 
Percivale threw down his palette and brushes, and ran to the 
door. 

Do put on your coat and hat, Percivale,” I cried—but he 
was gone. 

Cold as it was, he had been sitting in the light blouse he had 
worn at his work all the summer. The stove had got red-hot, 
and the room was like an oven, while outside a dank fog filled 
tiie air. I hurried after him with his coat, and found him pur¬ 
suing Fido about the garden, the brute declining to obey his 
call, or to drop the tortoise. Percivale was equally deaf to my 

T 2 


2/6 The Vicar’s Daughter, 

call, and not until he had beaten the dog did he return with the 
rescued tortoise in his hands. The consequences were serious 
—first the death of Zohrab, and next a terrible illness to my 
husband. He had caught cold; it settled on his lungs and 
passed into bronchitis. 

It was a terrible time to me, for I had no doubt, for some 
days, that he was dying. The measures taken seemed 
thoroughly futile. 

It is an awful moment when first death looks in at the door. 
The positive recognition of his presence is so different from any 
vividest imagination of it! For the moment I believed nothing 
—felt only the coming blackness of absolute loss. I cared 
neither for my children, nor for my father or mother. Nothing 
appeared of any worth more. I had conscience enough left to 
try to pray, but no prayer would rise from the frozen depths of 
my spirit. I could only move about in mechanical and hope¬ 
less ministration to one whom it seemed of no use to go on 
loving any more ; for what was nature but a soul-less machine, 
the constant clank of whose motion sounded only, “ Dust to 
dust \ dust to dust,” for evermore ? But I was roused from 
this horror-stricken mood by a look from my husband, 
who, catching a glimpse of my despair, motioned me to him 
with a smile as of sunshine upon snow, and whispered in my 
ear: 

“ I’m afraid you haven’t much more faith than myself after 
all, Wynnie.” 

It stung me into life—not for the sake of my professions, not 
even for the honour of our heavenly Father, but by waking in 
me the awful thought of my beloved passing through the 
shadow of death with no one beside him to help or comfort 
him, in absolute loneliness and uncertainty. The thought was 
unendurable. For a moment I wished he might die suddenly, 
and so escape the vacuous despair of a conscious lingering be¬ 
twixt life and the something or the nothing beyond it. 

But I cannot go with you ! ” I cried, and forgetting all mv 
duty as a nurse, I wept in agony. 


My Second Terror. 

** Perhaps another will, my Wynnie—one who knows the way,” 
he whispered, for he could not speak aloud, and closed his £yes. 

It was as if an arrow of light had slain the Python coiled 
about my heart. If believed, I could believe also; if he 
could encounter the vague dark, / could endure the cheerless 
light. I was myself again, and, with one word of endearment, 
left the bedside to do what had to be done. 

At length a faint hope began to glimmer in the depth of my 
cavernous fear. It was long ere it swelled into confidence; but 
although I was then in somewhat feeble health, my strength 
never gave way. For a whole week I did not once undress, and 
for weeks I was half awake all the time I slept. The softest 
whisper would rouse me thoroughly, and it was only when 
Marion took my place that I could sleep at all. 

I am afraid I neglected my poor children dreadfully. I 
seemed for the time to have no responsibility, and even, I am 
ashamed to say, little care for them. But then I knew that 
they were well attended to; friends were very kind—especially 
Judy—in taking them out \ and Marion’s daily visits were like 
those of a mother. Indeed she was able to mother anything 
human except a baby, to whom she felt no atti action—any 
more than to the inferior animals, for which she had little re¬ 
gard beyond a negative one : she would hurt no creature that 
was not hurtful; but she had scarcely an atom of kindness for 
dog or cat, or anything that is petted of woman. It is the only 
defect I am aware of in her character. 

My husband slowly recovered, but it was months before he 
was able to do anything he would call work. But even in 
labour success is net only to the strong. Working a little at the 
short best time of the day with him, he managed, long before 
his full recovery, to paint a small picture which better critics 
than I have thought worthy of Angelico. I will attempt to 
describe it. 

Through the lighted windows of a great hall, the spectator 
catches broken glimpses of a festive company. At the head 
of the table, pouring out the red wine, he sees one like unto the 


2/8 The Vicai^s Daughter. 

Son of Man, upon whom the eyes of all are tui .ed At the 
other end of the hall, seated high in a gallery, with rapt looks 
and quaint yet homely angelican instruments, he sees the 
orchestra pouring out their souls through their strings and truni 
pets. The hall is filled with a jewelly glow, as of light suppressed 
by colour, the radiating centre of which is the red wine on 
the table; while mingled wings, of all gorgeous splendours, 
hovering in the dim height, are suffused and harmonized by 
the molten ruby tint that pervades the whole. 

Outside, in the drizzly darkness, stands a lonely man. He 
stoops listening, with one ear laid almost against the door. His 
half-upturned face catches a ray of the light reffected from a 
muddy pool in the road. It discloses features wan and wasted 
with sorrow and sickness, but glorified with the joy of the music. 
He is like one who has been four days dead, to whose body 
the music has recalled the soul. Down by his knee he holds a 
violin, curiously fashioned like those of the orchestra within, 
which, as he listens, he is tuning to their pitch. 

To readers acquainted with a poem of Dr. Donne’s— 
Hymn to God, my God, in my sickness,”—this description 
of mine will at once suggest the origin of the picture. I had 
read some verses of it to him m his convalescence, and having 
heard them once he requested them often again. The first 
stanza runs thus : — 

Since I am coming to that holy room 
Where with the choir of saints for evermore 
I shall be made thy musique, as I come, 

I tune the instrument here at the door; 

And what I must do then, think here before. 


The painting is almost the only one he has yet refused to W. 
me see before it was finished; but when it was, he hung it up 
in my own little room off the study, and I became thoroughly 
acquainted with it. I think I love it more than anything else 
he has done. I got him, without telling him why, to put a 


My Second Terror. 279 

touch or two to the listening figure, which mad j it really lika 
himself. 

During this period of recovery, I often came upon him 
reading his Greek New Testament, which he would shove 
aside when I entered. At length one morning I said to him: 

“Are you ashamed of the New Testament, Percivale? 
One would think it was a bad book from the way you try 
to hide it.” 

“ No, my love,” he said; “ it is only that I am jealous of 
appearing to do that from suffering and weakness only, which 
I did not do when I was strong and well. But sickness has 
opened my eyes a good deal I think, and I am sure of this 
much, that whatever truth there is here, I want it all the same 
whether I am feeling the want or not. I had no idea w hat 
there was in this book.” 

“ Would you mind telling me,” I said, “ what made you take 
to reading it ? ” 

“ I will try.—When I thought I was dying, a black cloud 
seemed to fall over everything. It was not so much that I 
was afraid to die—although I did dread the final conflict—as 
that I felt so forsaken and lonely. It was of little use saying 
to myself that I mustn’t be a coward, and that it was the 
part of a man to meet his fate, whatever it might be, wdth 
composure ; for I saw nothing worth being brave about; the 
heart had melted out of me; there was nothing to give me 
joy, nothing for my life to rest upon, no sense of love at the 
heart of things. Didn’t you feel something the same that 
terrible day ? ” 

“ I did,” I answered. “ I hope I never believed in death 
all the time; and yet for one fearful moment the skeleton 
seemed to swell and grow till he blotted out the sun and the 
stars, and was himself all in all; while the life beyond was too 
shadowy to show behind him. And so death was victorious 
until the thought of your loneliness in the dark valley broke 
the spell, and for your sake I hoped in God again.” 

“ And I thought with myself—Would God set his children 


28 o The Vicai^s Daughter, 

down in the dark, and leave them to cry aloud in anguish at 
the terrors of the night? Would he not make the very dark* 
ness light about them ? Or if they must pass through such 
tortures, would he not at least let them know that he was 
with them ? How then can there be a God ? Then arose in 
my mind all at once the old story, how, in the person of his 
son, God himself had passed through the darkness now gather¬ 
ing about me, had gone down to the grave, and had con¬ 
quered death by dying. If this was true, this was to be a God 
indeed. Well might he call on us to endure who had himself 
borne the far heavier share. If there were an Eternal Life who 
would perfect my life, I could be brave ; I could endure what 
he chose to lay upon me; I could go whither he led.” 

“ And were you able to think all that when you were so ill, 
my love ? ” I said. 

“ Something like it—practically very like it,” he answered, 
“It kept growing in my mind—coming and going and gather¬ 
ing clearer shape. I thought with myself that if there was a 
God, he certainly knew that I would give myself to him if I 
could; that, if I knew Jesus to be verily and really his son, how¬ 
ever it might seem strange to believe in him and hard to obey 
him, I would try to do so ; and then a verse about the smoking 
flax and the bruised reed came into my head, and a great hope 
arose in me. I do not know if it was what the good people 
would call faith, but I had no time and no heart to think about 
words; I wanted God and his Christ. A fresh spring of life 
seemed to burst up in my heart; all the world grew bright again; 
I seemed to love you and the children twice as much as be¬ 
fore; a calmness came down upon my spirit which seemed 
to me like nothing but the presence of (;od; and, although 
I daresay you did not then perceive a change, I am certain 
that the same moment I began to recover.” 


The Clouds after the Rain^ 


23i 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

TU£ CLOUDS AFTER THE RAIN. 

But the clouds returned after the raia It will be c^tsily un¬ 
derstood how the little money we had in hand should have 
rapidly vanished during Percivale’s illness. While he was making 
nothing, the expenses of the family went on as usual, and not 
that only, but many little delicacies had to be got for him, and 
the doctor was yet to pay. Even up to the time when he was 
taken ill, we had been doing little better than living from hand 
to mouth, for as often as we thought income was about to get 
a few yards ahead in the race with expense, something invariably 
happened to disappoint us. 

I am not sorry that I have no special faculty for saving; for 
I have never known any in whom such was well developed, 
who would not do things they ought to be ashamed of. The 
savings of such people seem to me to come quite as much off 
other people as off themselves, and, especially in regard of 
small sums, they are in danger of being first mean, and then 
dishonest. Certainly, whoever makes saving the end of her 
life, must soon grow mean, and will probably grow dishonest 
But I have never succeeded in drawing the line betwixt mean¬ 
ness and dishonesty: what is mean, so far as I can see, slides 
by indistinguishable gradations into what is plainly dishonest. 
And what is more—the savings are commonly made at the 
cost of the defenceless. It is better far to live in constant 
difficulties, than to keep out of them by such vile means as 
must besides poison the whole nature, and make one’s judg¬ 
ments both of God and her neighbours mean as her own 
conduct. It is nothing to say that you must be just before 
you are generous, for that is the very point I am insisting on— 
namely, that one must be just to others before she is generous 
to herself. It will never do to make your two ends meet by 


282 


The Vica/s Daughter, 

pulling the other ends from the hands of those who are like 
wise puzzled to make them meet. 

But I must now put myself at the bar, and cry Peccavi; for 
I was often wrong on the other side, sometimes getting things 
for the house before it was quite clear I could afford them, and 
sometimes buying the best when an inferior thing would have 
been more suitable, if not to my ideas, yet to my purse. It is, 
however, far more difficult for one with an uncertain income to 
learn to save, or even to be prudent, than for one who knows 
how much exactly every quarter will bring. 

My husband, while he left the whole management of money 
matters to me, would yet spend occasionally without consulting 
me. In fact he had no notion of money, and what it would or 
would not do. I never knew a man spend less upon himself, 
but he would be extravagant for me, and I dared hardly utter 
a foolish liking lest he should straightway turn it into a cause 
of shame by attempting to gratify it. He had besides a weak¬ 
ness for over-paying people, of which neither Marion nor I 
could honestly approve, however much we might admire the 
disposition whence it proceeded. 

Now that I have confessed, I shall be more easy in my mind, 
for in regard of the troubles that followed, I cannot be sure 
that I was free of blame. One word more in self-excuse, and 
I have done; however imperative, it is none the less hard to 
cultivate two opposing virtues at one and the same time. 

While my husband was ill, not a picture had been disposed 
of, and even after he was able to work a little, I could not 
encourage visitors : he was not able for the fatigue, and in fact 
shrunk, with an irritability I had never perceived a sign of 
before, from seeing any one. To my growing dismay, 1 saw 
my little stock—which was bodily in my hand, for we had no 
banking account—rapidly approaching its final evanishment. 

Some may think that, with parents in the position of mine, 
a temporary difficulty need have caused me no anxiety : I must 
therefore mention one or two facts with regard *q both my 
husband and my parents. 


The Clouds af ar the Rain, 283 

In the first place, although he had as complete a confidence 
in him as I had—both in regard to what he said and what he 
seemed, my husband could not feel towards my father as I 
felt He had married me as a poor man, who yet could keep 
a wife; and I knew it would be a bitter humiliation to him to 
ask my father for money, on the ground that he had given his 
daughter. I should have felt nothing of the kind, for I should 
have known that my father would do him as well as me perfect 
justice in the matter, and would consider any money spent 
upon us as used to a divine purpose. For he regarded the 
necessaries of life as r.cb!?, its comforts as honourable, its 
luxuries as permissible—thus reversing altogether the usual 
judgment of rich men, who in general like nothing worse than 
to leave their hoards to those of their relatives who will 
degrade them to the purchase of mere bread and cheese, 
blankets and clothes and coals. But I had no right to 
go against my husband’s feeling. So long as the children had 
their bread and milk, I would endure with him. I am confident 
I could have starved as well as he, and should have enjoyed 
letting him see it. 

But there were reasons because of which even I, in my 
fullest freedom, could not have asked help from my father just 
at this time. I am ashamed to tell the fact, but I must: before 
the end of his second year at Oxford, just over, the elder of 
my two brothers had, without any vice, I firmly believe, beyond 
that of thoughtlessness and folly, got himself so deeply mired 
in debt, both to tradespeople and money-lenders, that my 
father had to pay two thousand pounds for him. Indeed, as 
I was well assured, although he never told me so, he had to 
borrow part of the money on a fresh mortgage in order to 
clear him. Some lawyer, I believe, told him that he was not 
bound to pay; but my father said that although such creditors 
deserved no protection of the law, he »vas not bound to give 
them a lesson in honesty at the expense of weakening the bond 
between himself and his son, for whose misdeeds he acknow¬ 
ledged a large share of responsibility; while on the other hand 


284 The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

he was bound to give his son the lesson of the suffering brought 
on his family by his selfishness; and therefore would pay the 
money—if not gladly, yet willingly. How the poor boy got 
through the shame and misery of it, I can hardly imagine; but 
this I can say for him, that it was purely of himself that he 
accepted a situation in Ceylon, instead of returning to Oxford. 
Thither he was now on his way, with the intention of saving 
all he could in order to repay his father; and if at length he 
succeeds in doing so, he will doubtless make a fairer start the 
second time, because of the discipline, than if he had gone out 
with the money in his pocket. 

It was natural then that in such circumstances a daughter 
should shrink from adding her troubles to those caused by a 
son. I ought to add that my father had of late been laying 
out a good deal in building cottages for the labourers on his 
farms, and that the land was not yet entirely freed from the 
mortgages my mother had inherited with it 

Percivale continued so weak that for some time I could not 
bring myself to say a word to him about money. But to keep 
them as low as possible did not prevent the household debts 
from accumulating, and the servants’ wages were on the point 
of coming due. I had been careful to keep the milkman paid, 
and for the rest of the tradesmen I consoled myself with the 
certainty that, if the worst came to the worst, there was plenty 
of furniture in the house to pay every one of them. Still, of 
all burdens, next to sin, that of debt I think must be the 
heaviest. 

I tried to keep cheerful, but at length, one night, during our 
supper of bread and cheese, which I could not bear to see my 
poor pale-faced husband eating, I broke down. 

“What is the matter, my darling?” asked Percivale. 

I took a half-crown from my pocket, and held it out on the 
palm of my hand. 

“ That’s all I’ve got, Percivale,” I said. 

“ Oh ! that all—is it ? ” he returned lightly. 

^ Yes—isn’t that enough ? ” I said with some indignation. 


The Clouds after the Raitu 285 

“ Certainly—for to-night,” he answered, “ seeing the shops 
are shut. But is that all that’s troubling you? ” he went on. 

“ It seems to me quite enough,” I said again; “ and if 
you had the housekeeping to do, and the bills to pay, you 
would think a solitary half-crown quite enough to make 
you miserable.” 

“ Never mind—so long as it’s a good one,” he said. “ I’ll 
get you more to-morrow.” 

“ How can you do that ? ” I asked. 

“ Easily,” he answered. “ You’ll see. Don’t you trouble 
your dear heart about it for a moment.” 

I felt relieved, and asked him no more questions. 

The next morning, when I went into the study to speak to 
him, he was not there, and I guessed that he had gone to 
town to get the money, for he had not been out before since 
his illness, at least without me. But I hoped of all things he 
was not going to borrow it of a money-lender, of which 
I had a great and justifiable horror, having heard from 
himself how a friend of his had in such case fared. I would 
have sold three-fourths of the things in the house rather. But 
as I turned to leave the study, anxious both about himself and 
his proceedings, I thought something was different, and soon 
discovered that a certain favourite picture was missing from 
the wall: it was clear he had gone either to sell it or raise 
money upon it. 

By our usual early dinner-hour, he returned, and put into my 
hands, with a look of forced cheerfulness, two five-pound 
notes. 

“ Is that all you got for that picture ? ” I said. 

“ That is all Mr. - would advance me upon it,” he 

answered. ‘‘ I thought he had made enough by me to have 
risked a little more than that; but picture-dealers—. Well, 
never mind. That is enough to give time for twenty things to 
happen.” 

And no doubt twenty things did happen, but none of them 
of the sort he meant The ten pounds sank through my 


286 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

purse like water through gravel. I paid a number of small 
bills at once, for they pressed the more heavily upon me that 
I knew the money was wanted j and by the end of another 
fortnight we were as badly off as before, with an additional 
trouble, which in the circumstances was anything but slight. 

In conjunction with more than ordinary endowments of 
stupidity and self-conceit, Jemima was possessed of a furious 
temper, which showed itself occasionally in outbursts of unen¬ 
durable rudeness. She had been again and again on the point 
cf leaving me, now she, now I giving warning, but ere the day 
arrived, her better nature had always got the upper hand \ she 
had broken down and given in. These outbursts had generally 
followed a season of better behaviour than usual, and were all 
but certain if I ventured the least commendation, for she could 
stand anything better than praise. At the least subsequent 
rebuke, self would break out in rage, vulgarity, and rudeness. 
On this occasion, however, I cannot tell whence it was that 
one of these cyclones arose in our small atmosphere; but it 
was Jemima, you may well believe, who gave warning, for it 
was out of my power to pay her wages. And there was no sign 
of her yielding. 

My readers maybe inclined to ask in what stead the religion 
I had learned of my father now stood me. I will endeavour to 
be honest in my answer. 

Every now and then I tried to pray to God to deliver us, 
but I was far indeed from praying always, and still farther from 
not fainting. A whole day would sometimes pass under a 
weight of care that amounted often to misery, and not until 
its close would I bethink me that I had been all the weary 
hours without God. Even when more hopeful, I would keep 
looking and looking for the impossibility of something to happen 
of itself, instead of looking for some good and perfect gift to 
come down from the Father of Lights; and when I awoke to 
the fact, the fog would yet lie so deep on my soul that I could 
not be sorry for my idolatry and want of faith. It was indeed 
a miserable time. There was, besides, one definite thought 


The Clouds aftei' the Rain. 287 

that always choked my prayers : I could not say in my con¬ 
science that I had been sufficiently careful either in my manage¬ 
ment or my expenditure. “If,” I thought, “I could be 
certain that I had done my best, I should be able to trust in 
God for all that lies beyond my power; but now, he may mean 
to punish me for my carelessness.’* Then why should I not 
endure it calmly and without complaint ? Alas ! it was not 
1 alone that thus would be punished, but my children and my 
husband as well. Nor could I avoid coming on my poor 
father at last, who of course would interfere to prevent a sale ; 
and the thought was, from the circumstances I have mentioned, 
very bitter to me. Sometimes, however, in more faithful 
moods, I would reason with myself that God would not be 
hard upon me even if I had not been so saving as I ought 
My father had taken his son’s debts on himself, and would not 
allow him to be disgraced more than could be helped ; and if 
an earthly parent would act thus for his child, would our 
Faiher in heaven be less tender with us ? Still, for very love’s 
sake, it might be necessary to lay some disgrace upon me, for 
of late I had been thinking far too little of the best things. The 
cares more than the duties of life had been filling my mind. 
If it brought me nearer to God, I must then say it had been 
good for me to be afflicted; but while my soul was thus 
oppressed, how could my feelings have any scope ? Let come 
what would, however, I must try and bear it—even disgrace, if 
it was his will. Better people than I had been thus disgraced, 
and it might be my turn next. Meantime it had not come to 
that, and I must not let the cares of to-morrow burden 
to-day. 

Every day almost, as it seems in looking back, a train of 
thought something like this would pass through my mind. But 
things went on, and grew no better. With gathering rapidity, 
we went sliding— to all appearance—down the inclined plane 
of d isgrace. 

Percivale at length asked Roger, if he had any money by 
him, ‘o lend him a little; and he gave him at once all he 


288 


The Vicat^s Daughter. 

had, amounting to six pounds—a wonderful amount for Roger 
to have accumulated - with the help of which we got on to the 
end of Jemima’s month. The next step I had in view was to 
take my little valuables to the pawnbroker’s—amongst them a 
watch, whose face was encircled with a row of good-sized 
diamonds. It had belonged to my great grandmother, and my 
mother had given it me when I was married. 

We had had a piece of boiled neck of mutton for dinner, of 
which we, that is my husband and I, had partaken sparingly, 
in order that there might be enough for the servants; Percivale 
had gone out, and I was sitting in the drawing-room, lost in 
anything but a blessed reverie, with all the children chattering 
amongst themselves beside me, when Jemima entered, looking 
subdued. 

“ If you please, ma’am, this is my day,” she said. 

“Have you got a place, then, Jemima?” I asked; for I 
had been so much occupied with my own affairs that I had 
thought little of the future of the poor girl to whom I could 
have given but a lukewarm recommendation for anything 
prized amongst housekeepers. 

“No, ma’am. Please, ma’am, mayn’t I stop?” 

“No, Jemima. I am very sorry, but I can’t afford to keep 
you. I shall have to do all the work myself when you are 
gone.” 

I thought to pay her wages out of the proceeds of my jewels, 
but was willing to delay the step as long as possible—rather I 
believe from repugnance to enter the pawn-shop than from 
disinclination to part with the trinkets. But as soon as I had 
spoken, Jemima burst into an Irish wail, mingled with sobs and 
tears, crying between the convulsions of all three,— 

“ I thought there was something wrong, mis’ess. You and 
master looked so scared-like. Please, mis’ess, don’t send me 
away.” 

“I never wanted to send you away, Jemima. You wanted 
to go yourself.” 

“ No, ma’am; that 1 didn’t. I only wanted you to ask me 


The Clouds after the Rain, 289 

to stop. Wirra 1 wirra 1 It’s myself is sorry I was so rude. 
It’s not me—it’s my temper, mis’ess. I do believe I was born 
witli a devil inside of me.” 

I could not help laughing, partly from amusement, partly 
from relief. 

“ But you see I can’t ask you to stop,” I said. “ I’ve got 
no money—not even enough to pay you to-day—so I can’t 
keep you.” 

“ I don’t want no money, ma’am. Let me stop, and I’ll 
cook for yez and wash and scrub for yez to the end o’ my 
days. An’ I’ll eat no more than’ll keep the life in me. I 
must eat something, or the smell o’ the meat would turn me 
sick, ye see, ma’am; and then I shouldn’t be no good to yez. 
Please ’m, I ha’ got fifteen pounds in the savings’ bank: I’ll 
give ye all that if ye’ll let me stop wid ye.” 

When I confess that I burst out crying, my reader will be 
kind enough to take into consideration that I hadn’t had much 
to eat for some time, that I was therefore weak in body as well 
as in mind, and that this was the first gleam of sunshine I had 
had for many weeks. 

“Thank you very much, Jemima,” I said, as soon as I could 
speak. “ I won’t take your money, for then you would be as 
poor as I am. But if you would like to stop with us you shall, 
and I won’t pay you till I’m able.” 

The poor girl was profuse in her thanks, and left the room 
sobbing in her apron. 

It was a gloomy drizzly dreary afternoon. The children were 
hard to amuse, and [ was glad when their bed-time arrived. It 
was getting late before Percivale returned. He looked pale, and 
I ibund afterwards that he had walked home. He had got wet, 
and had to change some of his clothes. When we went in to 
supper, there was the neck of mutton on the table, almost as 
we had left it This led me, L. fore asking him any questions, 
to relate what had passed witn Jemima, at which news he 
laughed merrily, and was evidently a good deal relieved. Then 
I asked him where he had been. 


u 


290 


% 

The Vicai^s Daughter. 

“ To the city,” he answered. 

“ Have you sold another picture ? ” I asked, with an inward 
tribulation, half hope, half fear; for much as we wanted the 
money, I could ill bear the thought of his pictures going for 
the price of mere pot-boilers. 

“ No,” he replied; “ the last is stopping the way. Mr.- 

has been advertising it as a bargain for a hundred and fifty. 
But he hasn’t sold it yet, and can’t, he says, risk ten pounds 
on another. What’s to come of it, I don’t know,” he added. 
“ But meantime it’s a comfort that Jemima can wait a bit for 
her money.” 

As we sat at supper I thought I saw a look on Percivale’s 
face which I had never seen there before. All at once, while 
I was wondering what it might mean, after a long pause, 
during which we had been both looking into the fire, he said,— 
Wynnie, I’m going to paint a better picture than I’ve 
ever painted yet. I can, and I will.” 

“ But how are we to live in the meantime ? ” I said. 

His face fell, and I saw with shame what a J ob’s comforter 
I was. Instead of sympathizing with his ardour, I had quenched 
it. What if my foolish remark had ruined a great picture! 
Anyhow it had wounded a great heart, which had turned to 
labour as its plainest duty, and would thereby have been 
strengthened to endure and to hope. It was too cruel ot me. 
I knelt by his knee, and told him I was both ashamed and 
sorry I had been so faithless and unkind. He made little of 
it; said I might well ask the question; and even tried to be 
merry over it; but I could see well enough that I had let a gust 
of the foggy night into his soul, and was thoroughly vexed with 
myself. We went to bed gloomy, but slept well, and awoke 
more cheerful. 















































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391 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE SUNSHINE. 

As we were dressing, it came into my mind that I had for. 
gotten to give him a black-bordered letter which had arrived 
the night before. I commonly opened his letters, but I had 
not opened this one, for it looked like a business letter, and I 
feared it might be a demand for the rent of the house, which 
was over due. Indeed at this time I dreaded opening any 
letter the writing on which I did not recognize. 

“ Here is a letter, Percivale,” I said. “I’m sorry I forgot 
to give it you last night.” 

“ Who is it from ? ” he asked, talking through his towel from 
his dressing-room. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t open it It looks like something 
disagreeable.” 

“ Open it now, then, and see.” 

“ I can’t just at this moment,” I answered, for I had my 
back hair half twisted in my hands. “ There it is on the 
chimney-piece.” 

He came in, took it, and opened it, while I went on with 
my toilet. Suddenly his arms were round me, and I felt his 
cheek on mine. 

“ Read that,” he said, putting the letter into my hand. 

It was from a lawyer in Shrewsbury, informing him that his 
godmother, with whom he had been a great favourite when a 
boy, was dead, and had left him three hundred pounds. 

It was like a reprieve to one about to be executed. I could 
only weep and thank God, once more believing in my Father 
in Heaven. But it was a humbling thought, that, if he had 
not thus helped me, I might have ceased to believe in him. I 
saw plainly that, let me talk to Percivale as I might, my own 
faith was but a wretched thing. It is all very well to have 

u 2 


293 The Vicar^s Daughter, 

noble theories about God, but where is the good of them except 
we actually trust in him as a real present living loving being, 
who counts us of more value than many sparrows, and will not 
let one of them fall to the ground without him? 

“ I thought, Wynnie, if there was such a God as you believed 
in, and with you to pray to him, we shouldn*t be long without a 
hearing,” said my husband. 

There was more faith in his heart all the time, though he 
could not profess the belief I thought I had, than there ever 

was in mine. 

But our troubles weren’t nearly over yet Percivale wrote 
acknowledging the letter, and requesting to know when it would 
be convenient to let him have the money, as he was in immediate 
want of it. The reply was that the trustees were not bound to 
pay the legacies for a year, but that possibly they might stretch 
a point in his favour if he applied to them. Percivale did so, 
but received a very curt answer, with little encouragement to 
expect anything but the extreme of legal delay. He received 
the money, however, about four months after—lightened, to 
the great disappointment of my ignorance, of thirty pounds 
legacy duty. 

In the meantime, although our minds were much relieved, 
and Percivale was working away at his new picture with great 
energy and courage, the immediate pressure of circumstances 
was nearly as painful as ever. It was a comfort, however, to 
know that we might borrow on the security of the legacy; but 
greatly grudging the loss of the interest which that would involve, 
I would have persuaded Percivale to ask a loan of Lady Bernard. 
He objected—on what ground do you think ?—^That it would 
be disagreeable to Lady Bernard to be repaid the sum she had 
lent us ! He would have finally consented, however, I have 
little doubt, had the absolute necessity for borrowing arrived. 

About a week or ten days after the blessed news, he had a 

note from Mr.-, whom he had authorized to part with the 

picture for thirty guineas. How much this was under its value^ 
it is not easy to say, seeing the money-value of pictures is 


The Sunshine, 


293 


dependent on so many things; but if the fairy godmother’s 
executors had paid her legacy at once, that picture would not 
have been sold for less than five times the amount; and I 
may mention that the last time it changed hands, it fetched 
five hundred and seventy pounds. 

Mr.-wrote that he had an offer of five and twenty for it, 

desiring to know whether he might sell it for that sum. Per- 
civale at once gave his consent, and the next day received a 
cheque for eleven pounds, odd shillings ; the difference being 
the amount borrowed upon it, its interest, the commission 
charged on the sale, and the price of a small picture 
frame. 

The next day Percivale had a visitor at the studio— no less a 
person than Mr. Baddeley, with his shirt-front in full blossom, 
and his diamond wallowing in light on his fifth finger—I cannot 
call it his little finger, for his hands were as huge as they were 
soft and white—hands descended of generations of laborious 
ones, but which had never themselves done any work beyond 
paddling in money. 

He greeted Percivale with a jolly condescension, and told 
him that having seen and rather liked a picture of his the other 
day, he had come to inquire whether he had one that would do 
for a pendent to it, as he should like to have it, provided he 
did not want a fancy price for it. 

Percivale felt as if he were setting out his children for sale, 
as he invited him to look about the room, and turned round a 
few from against the wall. The great man flitted hither and 
thither, spying at one after another through the cylinder of his 
curved hand, Percivale going on with his painting as if no one 
were there. 

“ How much do you want for this sketch ? ” asked Mr. 
Baddeley at length, pointing to one of the most highly finished 
paintings in the room. 

I put three hundred on it at the Academy Exhibition,” 
answered Percivale. “ My fnends thought it too little, but as 
it has been on my hands a long time now, and pictures don’t 


294 Vicat^s Daughter, 

rise in price in the keeping of the painter, I shouldn't mind 
taking two for it.” 

“ Two tenSi I suppose you mean,” said Mr. Baddeley. 

“ I gave him a look,” said Percivale as he described the 
interview to me; and I knew as well as if I had seen it what 
kind of a phenomenon that look must have been. 

“ Come now,” Mr. Baddeley went on, perhaps misinterpret¬ 
ing the look, for it was such as a man of his property was not 
in the habit of receiving, “ you mustn’t think Pm made of 
money, or that I’m a green hand in the market. I know what 
} our pictures fetch, and I’m a pretty sharp man of business, I 
believe. What do you really mean to say and stick to ? Ready 
money, you know.” 

“ Three hundred,” said Percivale coolly. 

“ Why, Mr. Percivale,” cried Mr. Baddeley, drawing himself 
up, as my husband said, with the air of one who knew a trick 

worth two of that, “ I paid Mr.-fifty pounds, neither more 

nor less, for a picture of yours yesterday—a picture, allow me 
to say, worth—” 

He turned again to the one in question with a critical air, 
as if about to estimate to a fraction its value as compared with 
the other.” 

“ Worth three of that, some people think,” said Percivale. 

“ The price of this then, joking aside, is—? ” 

“ Three hundred pounds,” answered Percivale—I know well 
how quietly. 

“ I understood you wished to sell it,” said Mr. Baddeley, 
beginning for all his good nature to look offended—as well 
he might. 

“ I do wish to sell it. I happen to be in want of money.” 

“ Then I’ll be liberal, and offer you the same I paid for the 
other. I’ll send you a cheque this afternoon for fifty—with 
pleasure.” 

“You cannot have that picture under three hundred.” 

“ Why! ” said the rich man, puzzled, “ you offered it for two 
hundred, not five minutes ago.” 


The Sunshine. 


295 


•• Yes; and you pretended to think I noeant two tens,** 

** Offended you, I fear.” 

** At all events betrayed so much ignorance of painting that 
1 would rather not have a picture of mine in your house.” 

“ You’re the first man ever presumed to tell me I was 
ignorant of painting,” said Mr. Baddeley, now thoroughly 
indignant. 

“ You have heard the truth, then, for the first time,” said 
Percivale, and resumed his work. 

Mr. Baddeley walked out of the study. 

I am not sure that he was so very ignorant He had been 
in the way of buying popular pictures for some time, paying 
thousands for certain of them. I suspect he had eye enough 
to see that my husband’s would probably rise in value, and, 
with the true huckster spirit, was ambitious of boasting how 
little he had given compared with what they were really worth. 

Percivale in this case was doubtless rude. He had an 
insuperable aversion to men of Mr. Baddeley’s class—men who 
could have no position but for their money, and who yet pre¬ 
sumed upon it, as if it were gifts and graces, genius and learn¬ 
ing, judgment and art, all in one. He was in the habit of 
saying that the plutocracy, as he called it, ought to be put 
down—that is, negatively, and honestly—by showing them no 
more respect than you really entertained for them. Besides, 
although he had no great fevour for cousin Judy’s husband, 
he yet bore Mr. Baddeley a grudge for the way in which he 
had treated one with whom, while things went well with him, 
he had been ready enough to exchange hospitalities. 

Before long, through Lady Bernard, he sold a picture at a 
fair price; and soon after, seeing in a shop-window the one 

Mr.-had sold to Mr. Baddeley, marked ten pounds, went in 

and bought it Within the year he sold it for a hundred and 
fifty. 

By working day and night almost, he finished his new picture 
in time for the Academy, and, as he had himself predicted, it 
proved, at least in the opinion of all his artist friends, the best 


296 The Vtcar's Daughter. 

that he had ever painted. It was bought at once for three 
hundred pounds, and never since then have we been in want 
of money. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

WHAT LADY BERNARD THOUGHT OF IT. 

My reader may wonder that, in my record of these troubles, I 
have never mentioned Marion. The fact is I could not bring 
myself to tell her of them, partly because she was in some 
trouble herself, from strangers who had taken rooms in the 
house, and made mischief between her and her grandchildren; 
and partly because I knew she would insist on going to Lady 
Bernard, and, although I should not have minded it myself, I 
knew that nothing but seeing the children hungry would have 
driven my husband to consent to it. 

**One evening, after it was all over, I told Lady Bernard 
the story. She allowed me to finish it without saying a word. 
When I had ended, she still sat silent for a few moments; then, 
laying her hand on my arm, said,— 

My dear child, you were very wrong, as well as very un¬ 
kind. Why did you not let me know ? ” 

“Because my husband would never have allowed me,” I 
answered. 

“ Then I must have a talk with your husband,” she said. 

“ I wish you would,” I replied, “ for I can’t help thinking 
Percivale too severe about such things.” 

The very next day she called, and did have a talk with him 
[n the study—to the following effect 

“ I have come to quarrel with you, Mr. Percivale,” said Lady 
Bernard. 

“ I’m sorry to hear it,” he returned. “ You’re the last person 


What Lady Bernard Thought of iU *97 

I should like to quarrel with, for it would imply some un¬ 
pardonable fault in me.” 

“ It does imply a fault—and a great one,” she rejoined, 
** though I trust not an unpardonable one. That depends on 
whether you can repent of it.” 

She spoke with such a serious air, that Percivale grew uneasy, 
and began to wonder what he could possibly have done to 
offend her. I had told him nothing of our conversation, wish¬ 
ing her to have her own way with him. 

When she saw him troubled, she smiled. 

“Is it not a fault, Mr. Percivale, to prevent one from 
obeying the divine law of bearing another's burden ? ” 

“ But,” said Percivale, “ I read as well, that every man shall 
bear his own burden.” 

“ Ah ! ” returned Lady Bernard, “ but I learn from Mr. Cony- 
beare, that two different Greek words are there used, which we 
translate only by the English burden. I cannot tell you what 
they are ; I can only tell you the practical result We are to 
bear one another’s burdens of pain, or grief, or misfortune, or 
doubt—whatever weighs one down is to be borne by another; 
but the man who is tempted to exalt himself over his neighbour, 
is taught to remember that he has his own load of disgrace to 
bear and answer for. It is just a weaker form of the lesson 
of the mote and the beam. You cannot get out at that door, 
Mr. Percivale. I beg you will read the passage in your Greek 
Testament, and see if you have not misapplied it. You ought 
to have let me bear your burden.” 

“Well,you see, my dear Lady Bernard,”returned Percivale, 
at a loss to reply to such a vigorous assault, “ I knew how it 
would be. You would have come here and bought pictures 
you didn’t want; and I, knowing all the time you did it only 
to give me the money, should have had to talk to you as if I 
were taken in by it; and I really could not stand it.” 

“There you are altogether wrong. Besides depriving me of 
the opportunity of fulfilling a duty and of the pleasure and the 
honour of helping to Dear your burden, you have deprived me 


2 gS The Vzca/s Daughter, 

of the opportunity of indulging a positive passion for pictures4 
I am constantly compelled to restrain it lest I should spend too 
much of the money given me for the common good on my own 
private tastes; but here was a chance for me! I might have 
had some of your lovely pictures in my drawing-room now— 
with a good conscience and a happy heart—if you had only 
been friendly. It was too bad of you, Mr. Percivale ! I am 
not pretending in the least when I assert that I am really and 
thoroughly disappointed.” 

“ I haven’t a word to say for myself,” returned Percivale. 

“ You couldn’t have said a better,” rejoined Lady Bernard; 
“ but I hope you will never have it to say again.” 

** That I shall not If ever I find myself in any difficulty 
worth speaking of, I will let you know at once.” 

“Thank you. Then we are friends again.—And now I do 
think I am entitled to a picture—at least I think it will be 
pardonable if I yield to the z^erj^ strong temptation I am under 
at this moment to buy one. Let me see; what have you in 
the slave market, as your wife calls it ? ” 

She bought “ The Street Musician,” as Percivale had named 
the picture taken from Dr. Donne. I was more miserable than 
I ought to have been when 1 found he had parted with it, but 
it was a great consolation to think it was to Lady Bernard’s it 
had gone. She was the only one, except my mother or Miss 
Clare, I could have borne to think of as having become its 
possessor. 

He had asked her what I thought a very low price for it; 
and I judge that Lady Bernard thought the same, but after 
what had passed between them, would not venture to expostu-. 
late. With such a man as my husband I fancy she thought 
it best to let well alone. Anyhow, one day soon after this, 
her servant brought him a little box, containing a fine bril¬ 
liant. 

“ The good lady’s kindness is long-sighted,” said my husband, 
as he placed it on his finger. “ I shall be hard up, though, 
before I part with this. Wynnie, I’ve actually got a finer 


Retrospective, 299 

diamond than Mr. Baddeley! It /V a beauty, if ever there was 
one! ” 

My husband, with all his carelessness of dress and adornment 
has almost a passion for stones. It is delightful to hear him 
talk about them. But he had never possessed a single gem 
before Lady Bernard made him this present I believe he is 
child enough to be happier for it all his life. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

Suddenly I become aware that I am drawing nigh the close of 
my monthly labours for a long year. Yet the year seems to 
have passed more rapidly because of this addition to my 
anxieties. Not that I haven’t enjoyed the labour while I have 
been actually engaged in it, but the prospect of the next 
month’s work would often come in to damp the pleasure of the 
present; making me fancy as the close of each chapter drew 
near, that I should not have material for another left in my 
head. I heard a friend once remark that it is not the cares of 
to-day, but the cares of to-morrow that weigh a man down. For 
the day we have the corresponding strength given; for the 
morrow we are told to trust; it is not ours yet. 

When I get my money for my work, I mean to give my hus¬ 
band a long holiday. I half think of taking him to Italy, for of 
course I can do what I like with my own, whether husband or 
money—and so have a hand in making him a still better 
painter. Incapable of imitation, the sight of any real work is 
always of great service to him, widening his sense of art, 
enlarging his idea of what can be done, rousing what part of 
his being is most in sympathy with it—a part possibly as yet 


300 


The Vicar^s Daughter, 

only half awake; in a word leading him anothei step towards 
that simplicity which is at the root of all diver iity, being so 
simple that it needs all diversity to set it forth. 

How impossible it seemed to me that I should ever write 
a book ! Well or ill done, it is almost finished, for the next 
month is the twelfth. I must look back upon what I have 
written, tc see what loose ends I may have left, and whether 
any allusion has not been followed up with a needful explana¬ 
tion ; for this way of writing by portions, the only way in which 
I could have been persuaded to attempt the work however, is 
unfavourable to artistic unity—an unnecessary remark, seeing 
that to such unity my work makes no pretensions. It is but a 
collection of portions detached from an uneventful, ordinary, 
and perhaps in part therefore very blessed life. Hence perhaps 
it was specially fitted for this mode of publication. At all 
events I can cast upon it none of the blame of what failure I 
may have to confess. 

A biography cannot be constructed with the art of a novel, 
for this reason, that a novel is constructed on the artist’s scale, 
with swift returning curves; a biography on the divine scale, 
whose circles are so large that they shoot beyond this world, 
sometimes even before we are able to detect in them the curve 
by which they will at length round themselves back towards 
completion. Hence every life must look more or less frag¬ 
mentary, and more or less out of drawing perhaps—not to men¬ 
tion the questionable effects in colour and tone where the model 
himself will insist on taking palette and brushes, and laying 
childish, if not passionate, conceited, ambitious, or even spite¬ 
ful hands to the work. 

I do not find that I have greatly blundered, or omitted 
much that I ought to have mentioned. One odd thing is, that 
in the opening conversation in which they urge me to the 
attempt, I have not mentioned Marion. I do not mean 
she was present, but that surely some one must have suggested 
her and her history as affording endless material for my re¬ 
cord. A thing apparently but not really strange, is, that I have 


RetrospecUve* 301 

never said a word about the Mrs. Cromwell mentioned in 
the same conversation. The fact is that I have but just 
arrived at the part of my story where she first comes in. 
She died about three months ago, and I can therefore with 
the more freedom narrate in the next chapter what I have 
known of her. 

I find also that I have, in the fourth chapter, by some odd 
cerebro-mechanical freak, substituted the name of my aunt 
Martha for that of my aunt Millicent, another sister of my 
father, whom he has not, I believe, had occasion to mention 
in either of his preceding books. My aunt Martha is Mrs. 
Weir, and has no children; my aunt Millicent is Mrs. Parsons, 
married to a hard-working attorney, and has twelve children, 
now mostly grown up. 

I find also in the thirteenth chapter, an unexplained allusion. 
There my husband says : “ Just ask my brother his experience 
in regard of the word to which you object.” The word was 
stomachy at the use of which I had in my ill-temper taken 
umbrage ; however disagreeable a word in itself, surely a 
husband might, if need be, use it without offence. It will be 
proof enough that my objection arose from pure ill-temper 
when I state that I have since asked Roger to what Percivale 
referred. His reply was, that, having been requested by a cer¬ 
tain person who had a school for young ladies—probably she 
called it a college—to give her pupils a few lectures on 
physiology, he could not go far in the course without finding :t 
necessary to make a not unfrequent use of the word, explaining 
the functions of the organ to which the name belonged, as 
resembling those of a mill. After the lecture was over, the 
school-mistress took him aside, and said she really could not 
allow her young ladies to be made familiar with such words. 
Roger averred that the word was absolutely necessary to the 
subject upon which she had desired his lectures; and that he 
did not know how any instruction in physiology could be given 
without the free use of it. “No doubt,” she returned “you 
must recognize the existence of the organ in question, but as 


303 The Vicat’s Daughter. 

the name of it is offensive to ears polite, could you not substi* 
tute another ? You have just said that its operations resemble 
those of a mill: could you not as often as you require to speak 
of it refer to it in future as the mill ? ” Roger, with great difficulty 
repressing his laughter, consented; but in his next lecture made 
far more frequent reference to the mill than was necessary, 
using the word every time—I know exactly how—with a cer¬ 
tain absurd solemnity that must have been irresistible. The 
girls went into fits of laughter at the first utterance of it, and 
seemed, he said, during the whole lecture intent only on the 
new term, at every recurrence of which their laughter burst 
out afresh. Doubtless their school-mistress had herself prepared 
them to fall into Roger’s trap. The same night he received 
a note from her, enclosing his fee for the lectures given, and 
informing him that the rest of the course would not be required. 
Roger sent back the money, saying that to accept part payment 
would be to renounce his claim for the whole; and that besides, 
he had already received an amount of amusement quite suffi¬ 
cient to reward him for his labour. I told him I thought he 
had been rather cruel; but he said such a woman wanted a 
lesson. He said also that to see the sort of women who some¬ 
times had the responsibility of training girls, must make the 
angels weep; none but a heartless mortal like himself could 
laugh where conventionality and insincerity were taught in 
every hint as to posture and speech. It was bad enough, he 
said, to shape yourself into your own ideal, but to have to 
fashion yourself after the ideal of one whose sole object in 
teaching was to make money, was something wretched indeed. 

I fin( besides that several intentions I had when I 
started, have fallen out of the scheme. Somehow the sub¬ 
jects would not well come in, or I felt that I was in danger 
of injuring the persons in the attempt to set forth their 
opinions. 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes, 




CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

MRS. CROMWELL COMES. 

The moment the legacy was paid, our liabilities being already 
nearly discharged, my husband took us all to Hastings. I had 
never before been to any other sea-coast town where the land 
was worthy of the sea, except Kilkhaven. Assuredly there is 
no place within easy reach of London to be once mentioned 
with Hastings. Of course we kept clear of the more fashion¬ 
able and commonplace St. Leonard’s end, where yet the sea is 
the same—a sea such that, not even off Cornwall, have I seen 
so many varieties of ocean-aspect. The immediate shore, with 
its earthy cliffs, is vastly inferior to the magnificent rock 
about Tintagel, but there is no outlook on the sea that I know 
more satisfying than that from the heights of Hastings, especially 
the East Hill; from the west .side of which also you may, when 
weary of the ocean, look straight down on the ancient port, 
with its old houses, and fine multiform red roofs, through the 
gauze of blue smoke which at eve of a summer day fills the 
narrow valley, softening the rough goings-on of life into har¬ 
mony with the gentleness of sea and shore, field and sky. 
No doubt the suburbs are as unsightly as mere boxes of brick 
and lime can be, with an ugliness mean because pretentious— 
an altogether modern ugliness; but even this cannot touch the 
essential beauty of the place. 

On the brow of this East Hill, just where it begins to sink 
towards Ecclesbourne Glen, stands a small old rickety house in 
the midst of the sweet grass of the downs. This house my 
husband was fortunate in finding to let, and took for three 
months, I am not however going to give any history of how 
we spent them—my sole reason for mentioning Hastings at all 
being that there I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Cromwell 
It was on this wise. 


304 


The Vicar's Daughter, 

One bright day about noon—almost all the days of those 
months were gorgeous with sunlight—a rather fashionable maid 
ran up our little garden, begging for some water for her 
mistress. Sending her on with the water, I myself followed 
with a glass of sherry. 

The door in our garden-hedge opened immediately on a 
green hollow in the hill, sloping towards the glen. As I stepped 
from the little gate on to the grass, I saw to my surprise that a 
white fog was blowing in from the sea. The heights on the 
opposite side of the glen, partially obscured thereby, looked 
more majestic than was their wont, and were mottled with 
patches of duller and brighter colour as the drifts of the fog 
were heaped or parted here and there. Far down, at the foot 
of the cliffs, the waves of the rising tide, driven shorewards with 
the added force of a south-west breeze, caught and threw back 
what sunlight reached them, and thinned with their shine the 
fog between. It was all so strange and fine, and had come 
on so suddenly, for when I had looked out a few minutes 
before, sea and sky were purely resplendent, that I stood a 
moment or two and gazed, almost forgetting why I was there. 

When I bethought myself and looked about me, I saw, in 
the sheltered hollow before me, a lady seated in a curiously 
shaped chair, so constructed in fact as to form upon occasion a 
kind of litter. It was plain she was an invalid—from her pale¬ 
ness, and the tension of the skin on her face, revealing the 
outline of the bones beneath. Her features were finely formed 
but rather small, and her forehead low—a Greek-like face, with 
large pale-blue eyes that reminded me of little Amy Morley’s. 
She smiled very sweetly when she saw me, and shook her head 
at the wine. 

“ I only wanted a little water,” she said. ** This fog seems to 
stifle me.” 

“ It has come on very suddenly,” I said. “ Perhaps it is the 
cold of it that affects your breathing. You don’t seem very 
strong, and any sudden change of temperature—” 

“I am not one of the most vigorous of mortals,” she 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes, 


305 

answered, with a sad smile; ‘‘but the day seemed of such in¬ 
dubitable character that after my husband had brought me here 
in the carriage, he sent it home and left me with my maid, 
while he went for a long walk across the downs. When he 
sees the change in the weather, though, he will turn directly.” 

“ It won’t do to wait him here,” I said. “ We must get you 
in at once. Would it be wrong to press you to take a little of 
this wine—just to counteract a chill? ” 

“ I daren’t touch anything but water,” she replied. “ It would 
make me feverish at once.” 

“ Run and tell the cook,” I said to the maid, “ that I want 
her here. You and she could carry your mistress in—could 
you not ? I will help you.” 

“There’s no occasion for that, ma’am—she’s as light as a 
feather,” was the whispered answer. 

“ I’m quite ashamed of giving you so much trouble,” said the 
lady, either hearing or guessing at our words. “ My husband 
will be very grateful to you.” 

“ It is only an act of common humanity,” I said. 

But as I spoke, I fancied her fair brow clouded a little, as if 
she was not accustomed to common humanity, and the word 
sounded harsh in her ear. The cloud however passed so 
quickly that I doubted, until I knew her better, whether it had 
really been there. 

The two maids were now ready, and, Jemima instructed by 
the other, they lifted her with the utmost ease and bore her 
gently towards the house. The garden-gate was just wide 
enough to let the chair through, and in a minute more she 
was upon the sofa. Then a fit of coughing came on which 
shook her dreadfully. When it had passed, she lay quiet with 
closed eyes, and a smile hovering about her sweet, thin-lipped 
mouth. By-and-by she opened them and looked at me with a 
pitiful expression. 

“ I fear you are far from well,” I said. 

“ I’m dying,” she returned quietly. 

“ I hope not,” was all I could answer. 


3o6 


The Vicars Datighter, 

“ Why should you hope not ? she returned. ** I am in no 
strait betwixt two. I desire to depart For me to die will be 
all gain/’ 

“ But your friends ? ” I ventured to suggest, feeling my way, 
and not quite relishing either the form or tone of her 
utterance. 

“ I have none but my husband.** 

“ Then your husband,” I persisted. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, mournfully, “ he will miss me, no doubt, 
for a while. But it musi be a weight off him, for I have been a 
sufferer so long ! ” 

At this moment, I heard a heavy hasty step in the passage; 
the next, the room door opened, and in came, in hot haste, 
wiping his red face, a burly man, clumsy and active, with an 
umbrella in his hand, followed by a great lumbering Newfound¬ 
land dog. 

“ Down, Polyphemus! ** he said to the dog, which crept 
under a chair; while he, taking no notice of my presence, 
hurried up to his wife. 

“My love! my little dove!” he said eagerly; “did you 
think I had forsaken you to the cruel elements ? ” 

“ No, Alcibiades,” she answered, with a sweet little drawl; 
“ but you do not observe that I am not the only lady in the 
room.” 

Then turning to me—“ This is my husband, Mr. Crom 
well,” she said. “ I cannot tell him^t7/^rname.” 

“ I am Mrs. Percivale,” I returned, almost mechanically, for 
the gentleman’s two names had run together and were sounding 
in my head :—Alcibiades Cromwell! How could such a con¬ 
junction have taken place without the intervention of Charles 
Dickens ? 

“ I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said Mr. Cromwell, bowing. 
“ Permit my anxiety about my poor wife to cover my rudeness. 
1 had climbed the other side of the glen before I saw the fog, 
and it is no such easy matter to get up and down these hills of 
yours. I am greatly obliged to you for your hospitality. You 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes, 


307 

have doubtless saved her life; for she is a frail flower—shrinking 
from the least breath of cold.” 

The lady closed her eyes again, and the gentleman took her 
hand and felt her pulse. He seemed about twice her age—she 
not thirty, he well past fifty—the top of his head bald, and 
his grey hair sticking out fiercely over his good-natured red 
cheeks. He laid her hand gently down, put his hat on the 
table and his umbrella in a corner, wiped his face again, drew 
a chair near the sofa, and took his place by her side. I thought 
it better to leave them. 

When I re-entered after a while, I saw from the windows, 
which looked sea-ward, that the wind had risen, and was driving 
thin drifts no longer, but great thick white masses of sea-fog 
landwards. It was the storm-wind of that coast—the south¬ 
west—which dashes the pebbles over the Parade, and the heavy 
spray against the houses. Mr. Alcibiades Cromwell was sit¬ 
ting as I had left him, silent by the side of his wife, whose 
blue-veined eyelids had apparently never been lifted from her 
large eyes. 

“ Is there anything I could offer Mrs. Cromwell ? ” I said. 
** Could she not eat something ? ” 

It is very little she can take,” he answered; “ but you are 
very kind. If you could let her have a little beef-tea? She 
generally has a spoonful or two about this time of the day.” 

“ I am sorry we have none,” I said; “ and it would be far 
too long for her to wait I have a nice chicken though, 
ready for cooking: if she could take a little chicken-broth, that 
would be ready in a very little while.” 

‘‘ Thank you a thousand times, ma’am,” he said heartily; 
nothing could be better. She might even be induced to eat 
a mouthful of the chicken. But I am afraid your extreme kind¬ 
ness prevents me from being so thoroughly ashamed as I 
ought to be at putting you to so much trouble for perfect 
strangers.” 

“ It is but a pleasure to be of service to any one in want o^ 
it,” I said. 


X a 


3 o 8 The Vicar's Daughter, 

Mrs. Cromwell opened her eyes and smiled gratefully. I left 
the room to give orders about the chicken—indeed to superin¬ 
tend the preparation of it myself, for Jemima could not be alto¬ 
gether trusted in such a delicate affair as cooking for an 
invalid. 

When I returned, having set the simple operation going, 
Mr. Cromwell had a little hymn-book of mine he had found on 
the table open in his hand, and his wife was saying to him,— 

“ That is lovely! Thank you, husband. How can it be I 
nevei saw it before ? I am quite astonished.’^ 

“ She little knows w’hat multitudes of hymns there are ! ” I 
thought with myself—my father having made a collection, 
whence I had some idea of the extent of that department of 
religious literature. 

“This is a hymn-book we are not acquainted with,” said 
Mr. Cromwell, addressing me. 

“ It is not much known,” I answered. “ It was compiled by 
a friend of my father’s for his own schools.” 

“ And this,” he went on, “ is a very beautiful hymn. You 
may trust my wife’s judgment, Mrs. Percivale. She lives 
upon hymns.” 

He read the first line to show which he meant. I had 
long thought, and still think it the most beautiful hymn I 
know. It was taken from the German, only much improved in 
the taking, and given to my father to do what he pleased with, 
and my father had given it to another friend for his collec¬ 
tion. 

Before that, however,^ while still in manuscript, it had fallen 
into the hands of a certain clergyman, by whom it had been 
published without leave asked, or apology made \ a rudeness of 
which neither my father nor the author would have complained, 
for it was a pleasure to think it might thus reach many to whom 
it would be helpful; but they both felt aggrieved and indignant 
that he had taken the dishonest liberty of altering certain lines 
of it to suit his own opinions. As I am anxious to give it 
all the publicity I can, from puie delignt in k, and love to all 


Mrs. Cromwell Comes, 


309 

who are capable of the same delight, I shall here communicate 
it, in the full confidence of thus establishing a claim on the 
gratitude of my readers. 

O Lord, how happy is the time 
When in thy love I rest! 

When from my weariness I climb 
Even to thy tender breast! 

The night of sorrow endeth there— 

Thou art brighter than the sun; 

And in thy pardon and thy care 
The heaven of heaven is won. 

Let the world call herself my foe. 

Or let the world allure: 

I care not for the world—I go 
To this dear friend and sure. 

And when life’s fiercest storms are sen 
Upon life’s wildest sea, 

My little bark is confident, 

Because it holds by thee. 

When the law threatens endless death 
Upon the awful hill; 

Straightway from her consuming breath 
My soul goes higher still;— 

Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain. 

And maketh him her home. 

Whence she will not go out again, 

And where death cannot come. 

I do not fear the wilderness 
Where thou hast been before; 

Nay rather will I daily press 
After thee, near thee, more. 

Thou art my food ; on thee I lean | 

Thou makest my heart sing; 

And to thy heavenly pastures greCtt 
All thy dear flock dost bring. 


310 The Vicars Daughter, 

And if the gate that opens there 
Be dark to other men, 

It is not dark to those who share 
The heart of Jesus then. 

That is not losing much of life 
Which is not losing thee. 

Who art as present in the strife 
As in the victory. 

Therefore how happy is the time 
When in thy love I rest! 

When from my weariness I climb 
Even to thy tender breast: 

The night of sorrow endeth there— 

Thou art brighter than the sun; 

And in thy pardon and thy care 
The heaven of heaven is won.> 

In telling them a few of the facts connected with the hymn, 
I presume I had manifested my admiration of it with some 
degree of fervour. 

“ Ah! ” said Mrs. Cromwell, opening her eyes very wide, 
and letting the rising tears fill them —** Ah, Mrs. Percivale I 
you are—you must be one of us ! ” 

“ You must tell me first who you are,” I said. 

She held out her hand; I gave her mine; she drew me 
towards her, and whispered almost in my ear—though why or 
whence the affectation of secrecy I can only imagine—the 
name of a certain small and exclusive sect. I will not indi¬ 
cate it, lest I should be supposed to attribute to it either the 
peculiar faults or virtues of my new acquaintance. 

“ No,” I answered, speaking with the calmness of self-com¬ 
pulsion, for I confess I felt repelled; “ I am not one of you, 
except in as far as we all belong to the church of Christ.” 

I have thought since how much better it would have been 
to say, “Yes; for we all belong to the church of Christ.” 

i«Wie wohl ist mir, O Freund der Seelen;” translated by a 
friend of the author. 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes, 


3" 

She gave a little sigh of disappointment, dosed her eyes 
for a moment, opened them again with a smile, and said, with 
a pleading tone,— 

** But do you believe in personal religion ? ” 

** I don’t see,” I returned, “ how religion can be anything 
but personal.” 

Again she closed her eyes, in a way that made me think 
how convenient bad health must be—conferring not only the 
privilege of passing into retirement at any desirable moment, 
but of doing so in such a ready and easy manner as the mere 
dropping of the eyelids. 

I rose to leave the room once more. Mr. Cromwell, who 
had made way for me to sit beside his wife, stood looking 
out of the window, against which came sweeping the great 
volumes of mist. I glanced out also. Not only was the sea 
invisible, but even the brow of the cliffs. When he turned 
towards me as I passed him, I saw that his face had lost 
much of its rubicund hue, and looked troubled and anxious. 

** There is nothing for it,” I said to myself, “ but keep 
them all night,” and so gave directions to have a bedroom 
prepared for them. I did not much like it, I confess; for I 
was not much interested in either of them, while of the sect 
to which she belonged I knew enough already to be aware 
that it was of the narrowest and most sectarian in Christen¬ 
dom. It was a pity she had sought to claim me by a would- 
be closer bond than that of the body of Christ. Still I knew 
I should be myself a sectary if I therefore excluded her from 
my best sympathies. At the same time I did feel some 
curiosity concerning the oddly yoked couple, and wondered 
whether the lady was really so ill as she would appear. I 
doubted whether she might not be using her illness both as 
an excuse for self-indulgence, and as a means of keeping her 
husband’s interest in her on the stretch. I did not like the 
wearing of her religion on her sleeve, nor the mellifluous drawl 
in which she spoke. 

When the chicken-broth was ready, she partook daintily; 


312 The Vicai^s ^aughte^, 

but before she ended, had niade a very good meal, including 
a wing and a bit of the breast; after which she fell asleep. 

“There seems little chance of the weather clearing,^ said 
Mr. Cromwell in a whisper, as I approached the window 
where he once more stood. 

“You must make up your mind to remain here for the 
night,” I said. 

“ My dear madam, I couldn^t think of it,” he returned—I 
thought from unwillingness to incommode a strange house¬ 
hold. “ An invalid like her—sweet lamb ! ”—he went on, 
“ requires so many little comforts and peculiar contrivances to 
entice the repose she so greatly needs, that—that—in short, 
I must get her home.” 

“ Where do you live ? ” I asked, not sorry to find his inten¬ 
tion of going so fixed. 

“ We have a house in Warrior Square,” he answered. “ We 
live in London, but have been here all the past winter. I 
doubt if she improves though. I doubt—I doubt.” 

He said the last words in a yet lower and more mournful 
whisper; then, with a shake of his head, turned and gazed 
again through the window. 

A peculiar little cough from the sofa made us both look 
round. Mrs. Cromwell was awake, and searching for her 
handkerchief. Her husband understood her movements, and 
hurried to her assistance. When she took the handkerchief 
from her mouth, there was a red spot upon it. Mr. Crom¬ 
well’s face turned the colour of lead; but liis wife looked up 
at him, and smiled—^a sweet, consciously pathetic smile. 

“ He has sent for me,” she said. “ The messenger has 
tome.” 

Her husband made no answer. His eyes seemed starting 
from his head. 

“ Who is your medical man ? ” I asked him. 

He told me, and I sent off my housemaid to fetch him. 
It was a long hour before he arrived, during which, as often 
as I peeped in, I saw him sitting silent and holding her hand-« 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes. 


313 

until the last time, when I found him reading a hymn to her. 
She was apparently once more asleep. Nothing could be 
more favourable to her recovery than such quietness of both 
body and mind. 

When the doctor came, and had listened to Mr. Cromweirs 
statement, he proceeded to examine her chest with much care. 
That over, he averred in her hearing that he found nothing 
serious, but told her husband apart that there was considerable 
mischief, and assured me afterwards that her lungs were all but 
gone, and that she could not live beyond a month or two. 
She had better be removed to her own house, he said, as 
speedily as possible. 

“ But it would be cruelty to send her out a day like this,*’ 
I returned. 

“ Yes, yes; I did not mean that,” he said. But to-morrow, 
perhaps. You’ll see what the weather is like. Is Mrs. Crom¬ 
well an old friend ? ” 

I never saw her until to-day,” I replied. 

Ah I ” he remarked, and said no more. 

We got her to bed as soon as possible. I may just men¬ 
tion that I never saw anything to equal the point-devise of her 
under-clothing. There was not a stitch of cotton about her, 
using the word stitch in its metaphorical sense. But indeed I 
doubt whether her garments were not all made with linen 
thread. Even her horse-hair petticoat was quilted with rose- 
coloured silk inside. 

“ Surely she has no children ! ” I said to myself—and was 
right, as my mother-readers will not be surprised to learn. 

It was a week before she got up again, and a month before 
she was carried down the hill, during which time her husband 
sat up with her, or slept on a sofa in the room beside her, 
every night. During the day I took a share in the nursing— 
which was by no means oppressive, for she did not suffer much 
and required little. Her chief demand was for hymns, the 
only annoyance connected with which worth mentioning was, 
that she often wished me to admire with her such as I could 


514 The Vicar's Daughter* 

only half like, and occasionally such as were thoroughly dis¬ 
tasteful to me. Her husband had brought her own collection 
from Warrior Square—volumes of hymns in manuscript, copied 
by her own hand, many of them strange to me—none of thos% 

I read altogether devoid of literary merit, and some of then 
lovely both in feeling and form. But all, even the best, which 
to me were unobjectionable, belonged to one class—a class 
breathing a certain tone difficult to describe—one however 
which I find characteristic of all the Roman Catholic hymns 
I have read. I will not indicate any of her selection ; neither, 
lest I should be supposed to object to this or that one answer¬ 
ing to the general description, and yet worthy of all respect, or 
even sympathy, will I go further with a specification of their 
sort than to say that what pleased me in them was their full 
utterance of personal devotion to the Saviour, and that what 
displeased me was a sort of sentimental regard of self in the 
matter—an implied special, and thus partially exclusive predi¬ 
lection or preference of the Saviour for the individual sup¬ 
posed to be making use of them ; a certain fundamental want 
of humility therefore, although the forms of speech in which 
they were cast might be laboriously humble. They also not 
unfrequently manifested a great leaning to the forms of 
earthly show as representative of the glories of that kingdom 
which the Lord says is within us. 

Likewise the manner in which Mrs. Cromwell talked, re¬ 
minded me much of the way in which a nun would represent 
her individual relation to Christ. I can best show what I 
mean by giving a conversation I had with her one day when 
she was recovering—which she did with wonderful rapidity up 
to a certain point. I confess I shrink a little from reproducing 
it, because of the sacred name which, as it seemed to me, was 
far too often upon her lips, and too easily uttered. But then 
she was made so different from me 1 

The fine weather had returned in all its summer glory, and 
she was lying on a couch in her own room near the window, 
whence she could gaze on the expanse of sea belo v—this 


Mrs. Cromwell Comes. 


315 

morning streaked with the most delicate gradations of distance, 
sweep beyond sweep, line and band and ribbon of softly, often 
but slightly varied hue, leading the eyes on and on into the 
infinite. There may have been some atmospheric illusion 
ending off the show, for the last reaches mingled so with the 
air that you saw no horizon line, only a great breadth of border, 
no spot in which could you appropriate with certainty either 
to sea or sky; while here and there was a vessel to all appear¬ 
ance pursuing its path in the sky and not upon the sea. It 
was, as some of my readers will not require to be told, a still 
grey forenoon, with a film of cloud over all the heavens, and 
many horizontal strata of deeper but varying density near the 
horizon. 

Mrs. Cromwell had lain for some time with her large eyes 
fixed on the farthest confusion of sea and sky. 

“ I have been sending out my soul,” she said at length, “ to 
travel all across those distances, step by step, on to the gates 
of pearl. Who knows but that may be the path I must travel 
to meet the bridegroom ? ” 

“ The way is wide,” I said: ** what if you should miss 
him?” 

I spoke almost involuntarily. The style of her talk was 
very distasteful to me, and I had just been thinking of what I 
had once heard my father say—that at no time were people in 
more danger of being theatrical than when upon their death¬ 
beds. 

“No,” she returned, with a smile of gentle superiority; 
“ —no; that cannot be. Is he not waiting for me ? Has he 
not chosen me, and called me for his own ? Is not my Jesus 
mine ? I shall not miss him. He waits to give me my new 
name, and clothe me in the garments of righteousness.” 

As she spoke, she clasped her thin hands and looked up¬ 
wards with a radiant expression. Far as it was from me to 
hint, even in my own soul, that the Saviour was not hers, ten¬ 
fold more hers than she was able to think, I could not at the 
same time but doubt whether her heart and soul and mind 


3i6 The Vicar's Daughter, 

were as close to him as her words would indicate she thought 
they were. She could not be wrong in trusting him, but could 
she be right in her notion of the measure to which her union 
with him had been perfected ? I could not help thinking that 
a little fear, soon to pass into reverence, might be to her a 
salutary thing. The fear, I thought, would heighten and deepen 
the love, and purify it from that self which haunted her whole 
consciousness, and of which she had not yet sickened, as one 
day she certainly must. 

“ My lamp is burning,” she said. “ I feel it burning. I love 
my Lord. It would befalse to say otherwise.” 

“ Are you sure you have oil enough in your vessel as well 
as in your lamp ? ” I said. 

“ Ah, you are one of the doubting ! ” she returned kindly. 
“ Don’t you know that sweet hymn about feeding our lamps 
from the olive-trees of Gethsemane ? The idea is taken from 
the lamp the prophet Zechariah saw in his vision, into which 
two olive-branches, through two golden pipes, emptied the 
golden oil out of themselves. If we are thus one with the 
olive-tree, the oil cannot fail us. It is not as if we had to fill 
our lamps from a cruse of our own. This is the cruse that 
cannot fail.” 

“ True, true,” I said; but ought we not to examine our 
own selves whether we are in the faith ? ” 

“ Let those examine that doubt,” she replied; and I could 
not but yield in my heart that she had had the best of the 
argument. 

For I knew that the confidence in Christ which prevents us 
from thinking of ourselves, and makes us eager to obey his 
word, leaving all the care of our feelings to him, is a true and 
healthy faith. Hence I could not answer her, althou^ I 
doubted whether her peace came from such confidence— 
doubted for several reasons; one, that, so far from not think¬ 
ing of herself, she seemed full of herself; another, that she 
seemed to find no difficulty with herself in any way—and surely 
she was too young for all struggle to be over! I perceived no 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes, 


317 


reference to the will of God in regard of anything she had to 
do, only in regard of what she had to suffer, and specially in 
regard of that smallest of matters—when she was to go. Here 
I checked myself, for what could she do in such a state of 
health ? But then she never spoke as if she had any anxiety 
about the welfare of other people. That however might be 
from her absolute contentment in the will of God. But why 
did she always look to the Saviour through a mist of hymns, 
and never go straight back to the genuine old good news, or 
to the mighty thoughts and exhortations with which the first 
preachers of that news followed them up and unfolded the 
grandeur of their goodness ? After all, was I not judging her ? 
On the other hand, ought I not to care for her state ? Should 
I not be inhuman, that is unchristian, if I did not? 

In the end I saw clearly enough that except it was revealed 
to me what I ought to say, I had no right to say anything \ 
and that to be uneasy about her, was to distrust him whose it 
was to teach her, and who would perfect that which he had 
certainly begun in her. For her heart, however poor and faulty 
and flimsy its faith might be, was yet certainly drawn towards 
the one object of faith. I therefore said nothing more in the 
direction of opening her eyes to what I considered her com 
dition : that view of it might after all be but a phantasm 
of my own projection. What was plainly my duty was to 
serve her as one of those the least of whom the Saviour sets 
forth as representing himself. I would do it to her as unto 
him. 

My children were out the greater part of every day, and Dora 
was with me, so that I had more leisure than I had had for a 
long time. I therefore set myself to wait upon her as a kind 
of lady’s-maid in things spiritual. Her own maid, understand¬ 
ing her ways, was sufficient for things temporal. I resolved 
to try to help her after her own fashion and not after mine, for, 
however strange the nourishment she preferred might seem, it 
must at least be of the kind she could best assimilate. My 
care should be—to give her her gruel as good as I might, and 


3i8 The Vicar's Daughter, 

her beef-tea strong, with chicken-broth instead of barley-water 
and delusive jelly. But much opportunity of ministration was 
not afforded me, for her husband, whose business in life she 
seemed to regard as the care of her—for which in truth she 
was gently and lovingly grateful—and who not merely accepted 
her view of the matter but, I was pretty sure, had had a large 
share in originating it, was even more constant in his attentions 
than she found altogether agreeable, to judge by the way in 
which she would insist on his going out for a second walk, 
when it was clear that, besides his desire to be with her, he 
was not inclined to walk any more. 

I could set myself however, as I have indicated, to find fitting 
pabulum for her—and that of her chosen sort. This was pos¬ 
sible for me in virtue of my father’s collection of hymns and 
the aid he could give me. I therefore sent him a detailed de¬ 
scription of what seemed to me her condition, and what I 
thought I might do for her. It was a week before he gave me 
an answer, but it arrived a thorough one—in the shape of a 
box of books, each bristling with paper marks, many of them 
inscribed with some fact concerning or criticism upon the hymn 
indicated. He wrote that he quite agreed with my notion of 
the right mode of serving her, for any other would be as if a 
besieging party were to batter a postern by means of boats in¬ 
stead of walking over a lowered drawbridge and under a raised 
portcullis. 

Having taken a survey of the hymns my father thus pointed 
out to me, and arranged them according to their degrees of 
approximation to the weakest of those in Mrs. Cromwell’s 
collection, I judged that in all of them there was something 
she must appreciate, although the main drift of several would 
be entirely beyond her apprehension. Even these, however, it 
would be well to try upon her. 

Accordingly, the next time she asked me to read from her 
collection, I made the request that she would listen to some 
which I believed she did not know, but would, I thought, like. 
She consented with eagerness, was astonished to find she knew 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes* 


319 

none of them, expressed much approbation of some, and showed 
herself delighted with others. 

That she must have had some literary faculty seems evident 
from the genuine pleasure she took in simple, quaint, some¬ 
times even odd hymns of her own peculiar kind. But the very 
best of another sort, she could not appreciate. For instance, 
the following, by John Mason, in my father’s opinion one of 
the best hymn-writers, had no attraction for her ^ 

Thou wast, O God, and thou wast blest 
Before the world begun ; 

Of thine eternity possest 
Before time’s glass did run. 

Thou needest none thy praise to sing^ 

As if thy joy could fade: 

Couldst thou have needed anything^ 

Thou couldst have nothing made. 

Great and good God, it pleased thee 
Thy Godhead to declare ; 

And what thy goodness did decree, 

Thy greatness did prepare : 

Thou spak’st, and heaven and earth appeared 
And answered to thy call; 

As if their maker’s voice they heard. 

Which is the creature’s AU. 

Thou spak’st the word, most mighty Lordf 
Thy word went forth with speed: 

Thy will, O Lord, it was thy word. 

Thy word it was thy deed. 

Thou brought’st forth Adam from the ground, 

And Eve out of his side : 

Thy blessing made the earth abound 
With these two multiplied. 

Those three great leaves, Heaven, Sea, and Lan4» 

Thy name in figures show; 

Brutes feel the bounty of thy hand. 

But I my maker know. 


320 


The Vicar's Daughter* 

Should not I here thy servant be, 

Whose creatures serve me here ? 

My Lord, whom should I fear but thee, 

Who am thy creatures’ fear ? 

To whom, Lord, should I sing but thee, 

The maker of my tongue ? 

Lo ! other lords would seize on me, 

But I to thee belong. 

As waters haste unto their sea, 

And earth unto its earth, 

So let my soul return to thee, 

From whom it had its birth. 

But ah ! I’m fallen in the night, 

And cannot come to thee, 

Yet speak the word. Let there be Lights 
It shall enlighten me ; 

And let thy word, most mighty Lord, 

Thy fallen creature raise : 

Oh make me o’er again, and I 
Shall sing my maker’s praise. 

This and others, I say she could not relish j but my en¬ 
deavours were crowned with success in so far that she accepted 
better specimens of the sort she liked than any she had; and 
I think they must have had a good influence upon her. 

She seemed to have no fear of death, contemplating the 
change she believed at hand not with equanimity merely, but 
with expectation. She even wrote hymns about it—sweet, 
pretty, and weak, always with herself and the love of her Saviour 
for her in the foreground. She had not learned that the love 
which lays hold of that which is human in the individual, that 
is, which is common to the whole race, must be an infinitely 
deeper, tenderer, and more precious thing to the individual 
than any affection manifesting itself in the preference of one 
over another. 

For the sake of re'dealing her modes of thought, I will give 


Mrs, Cromwell Comes, 


321 


one more specimen of my conversations with her, ere I pass 
on. It took place the evening before her departure for her 
own house. Her husband had gone to make some final pre¬ 
parations, of which there had been many. For one who ex¬ 
pected to be unclothed that she might be clothed upon, she 
certainly made a tolerable to-do about the garment she was so 
soon to lay aside; especially seeing she often spoke of it as an 
ill-fitting garment—never with peevishness or complaint—only, 
as it seemed to me, with far more interest than it was worth. 
She had even, as afterwards appeared, given her husband — 
good, honest, dog-like man—full instructions as to the cere¬ 
monial of its interment. Perhaps I should have been consider¬ 
ably less bewildered with her conduct had I suspected that she 
was not half so near death as she chose to think, and that she 
had as yet suffered little. 

That evening, the stars just beginning to glimmer through 
the warm flush that lingered from the sunset, we sat together 
in the drawing-room looking out on the sea. My patient ap¬ 
pearing, from the light in her eyes, about to go off into one of 
her ecstatic moods, I hastened to forestall it, if I might, with 
whatever came uppermost; for I felt my inability to sympathize 
with her in these, more of a pain than my reader will perhaps 
readily imagine. 

“ It seems like turning you out to let you go to-morrow, 
Mrs. Cromwell,” I said; “ but you see our three months are 
up two days after, and T cannot help it.” 

“ You have been very kind,” she said, half abstractedly. 

“ And you are really much better. Who would have thought 
three weeks ago to see you so well to-day ? ” 

** Ah! you congratulate me, do you ? ” she rejoined, turning 
her big eyes full upon me; “ —congratulate me that I am 
doomed to be still a captive in the prison of this vile body? 
Is it kind ? Is it well ? ” 

“At least you must remember—if you are doomed—who 
dooms you.” 

“ ‘ Oh that I had the wings of a dove!' ” she cried, avoiding 

Y 


322 The Vicar^s Daughter. 

my remark, of which I doubt if she saw the drift. “ Think, 
dear Mrs. Percivale—the society of saints and angels t—all 
brightness, and harmony, and peace 1 Is it not worth foisaking 
this world to inherit a kingdom like that ? Wouldn^t you like 
to go ? Don’t you wish to fly away and be at rest ? ” 

She spoke as if expostulating and reasoning with one she 
would persuade to some kind of holy emigration. 

“ Not until I am sent for,” I answered. 

** / am sent for,” she returned. “ * The wave may be cold, 
and the tide may be strong. But, hark, on the shore, the angels* 
glad song! * Do you know that sweet hymn, Mrs. Percivale ? 
—There I shall be able to love him aright, to serve him 
aright 1 

* Here all my labour is so poor t 
Here all my love so faint! 

But when I reach the heavenly door, 

I cease the weary plaint.* ” 

I couldn’t help wishing she would cease it a little sooner. 

“ But suppose,’* I ventured to say, “ it were the will of God 
that you should live many years yet.** 

‘‘ That cannot be. And why should you wish it for me ? 
Is it not better to depart and be with him ? What pleasure 
could it be to a weak worn creature like me to go on living in 
this isle of banishment ? ” 

“ But suppose you were to recover your health: would it 
not be delightful to do something for his sake ? If you would 
think of how much there is to be done in the world, perhaps 
you would wish less to die and leave it.’* 

“ Do not tempt me,” she returned reproachfully. 

And then she quoted a passage the application of which to 
her own case appeared to me so irreverent, that I confess I 
felt like Abraham with the idolater—so far at least as to wish her 
out of the house, for I could bear with her, I thought, no longer. 

She did leave it the next day, and I breathed more freely 
than since she had entered it. 


Mrs. Cromwell Goes, 


323 


My husband came down to fetch me the following day, and 
a walk with him along the cliffs in the gathering twilight, during 
which I recounted the affectations of my late visitor, completely 
wiped the cobwebs from my mental windows, and enabled me 
to come to the conclusion that Mrs. Cromwell was but a spoilt 
child, who would, somehow or other, be brought to her senses 
before all was over. I was ashamed of my impatience with 
her, and believed if I could have learned her history, of which 
she had told me nothing, it would have explained the rare 
phenomenon of one apparently able to look death in the face 
with so little of the really spiritual to support her, for she seemed 
to me to know Christ only after the flesh. But had she indeed 
ever looked death in the face ? 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

MRS. CROMWELL GOES. 

I HEARD nothing more of her for about a year. A note or two 
passed between us, and then all communication ceased. This, 
I am happy to think, was not immediately my fault; not that 
it mattered much, for we were not then fitted for much com¬ 
munion :—we had too little in common to commune. 

Did you not both believe in one Lord ? ” I fancy a reader 
objecting. “ How then can you say you had too little in 
common to be able to commune ? ” 

I said the same to myself, and tried the question in many 
ways. The fact remained that we could not commune—that 
is, with any heartiness; and, although I may have done her 
wrong, it was, I thought, to be accounted for something in 
this way. The Saviour of whom she spoke so often, and 
evidently thought so much, was in a great measure a being 
of her fancy—so much so that she manifested no desire to 

Y 2 


524 Vicar's Daughter. 

find out what the Christ was who had spent three and thirty 
years in making a revelation of himself to the world. The 
knowledge she had about him was not even at second hand 
but at many removes. She did not study his words or his 
actions to learn his thoughts or his meanings; but lived in a 
kind of dreamland of her own which could be interesting only 
to the dreamer. Now if we are to come to God through 
Christ, it must surely be by knowing Christ; it must be through 
the knowledge of Christ that the Spirit of the Father mainly 
works in the members of his body; and it seemed to me she 
did not take the trouble to “know him and the power of his 
resurrection.” Therefore we had scarcely enough of commoi^ 
ground, as I say, to meet upon. I could not help contrast¬ 
ing her religion with that of Marion Clare. 

At length I had a note from her, begging me to go anct 
see her at her house at Richmond, and apologizing for her 
not coming to me, on the score of her health. I felt it my 
duty to go, but sadly grudged the loss of time it seemed, for 
I expected neither pleasure nor profit from the visit. Perci- 
vale went with me, and left me at the door to have a row on 
the river, and call for me at a certain hour. 

The house and grounds were luxurious and lovely both— 
two often dissociated qualities. She could have nothing to 
desire of this world’s gifts, I thought. But the moment she 
entered the room into which I had been shown, I was shocked 
at the change I saw in her. Almost to my horror, she was 
in a widow’s cap j and disease and coming death were plain 
on every feature. Such was the contrast, that the face in my 
memory appeared that of health. 

“ My dear Mrs. Cromwell! ” I gasped out. 

“You see,” she said, and sitting down on a straight-backed 
chair, looked at me with lustreless eyes. 

Death had been hovering about her windows before, but 
had entered at last—not to take the sickly young v/oman long¬ 
ing to die, but the hale man, who would have clung to the last 
edge of life. 


Mrs^ Cromwell Goes, 


325 

“ He is taken, and I am left,” she said abruptly, after a long 
pause. 

Her drawl had vanished: pain and grief had made her 
simple. “ Then,’^ I thought with myself, ‘‘ she did love him ! ” 
But I could say nothing. She took my silence for the sym¬ 
pathy it was, and smiled a heartrending smile—so different 
from that little sad smile she used to have !—really, pathetic 
now, and with hardly a glimmer in it of the old self-pity. I 
rose, put my arms about her, and kissed her on the forehead ; 
she laid her head on my shoulder, and wept. 

‘‘Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,” I faltered out, 
for her sorrow filled me with a respect that was new. 

“Yes,” she returned, as gently as hopelessly; “and whom 
he does not love as well.” 

“You have no ground for saying so,” I answered. “The 
apostle does not.” 

“ My lamp is gone out,” she said, “ —gone out in darkness, 
utter darkness. You warned me, and I did not heed the 
warning. I thought I knew better, but I was full of self-con¬ 
ceit. And now I am wandering where there is no way and no 
light. My iniquities have found me out.” 

I did not say what I thought I saw plain enough—that 
her lamp was just beginning to burn. Neither did I try to 
persuade her that her iniquities were small. 

“ But the bridegroom,” I said, “ is not yet come. There is 
time to go and get some oil.” 

“ Where am I to get it ? ” she returned, in a tone of despair. 

“ From the bridegroom himself,” I said. 

“ No,” she answered. “ I have talked and talked and 
talked, and you know he says he abhors talkers. I am one 
of those to whom he will say, ‘ I know you not.’ ” 

“ And you will answer him that you have eaten and drunk 
in his presence, and cast out devils, and— ? ” 

“ No, no; I will say he is right—that it is all my own fault; 
that I thought I was something when I was nothing, but that 
I know better now.” 


326 The Vicar^s Daughter. 

A dreadful fit of coughing interrupted her. As soon as it 
was over, I said,— 

“ And what will the Lord say to you, do you think, when 
you have said so to him ? ” 

“Depart from me,” she answered in a hollow, forced 
voice. 

“ No,” I returned. “ He will say, * I know you well. You 
have told me the truth. Come in.’ ” 

“ Do you think so ? ” she cried. “ You never used to think 
well of me.” 

“ Those who were turned away,” I said, avoiding her last 
words, “ were trying to make themselves out better than they 
were; they trusted, not in the love of Christ, but in what 
they thought their worth and social standing. Perhaps if their 
deeds had been as good as they thought them, they would 
have known better than to trust in them. If they had told 
him the truth ; if they had said, ‘ Lord, we are workers of 
iniquity; Lord, we used to be hypocrites, but we speak the 
truth now; forgive us ’—do you think he would then have 
turned them away ? No, surely. If your lamp has gone out, 
make haste and tell him how careless you have been; tell him 
all, and pray him for oil and light—and see whether your 
lamp will not straightway glimmer—glimmer first and then 
glow ” 

“ Ah, Mrs. Percivale ! *’ she cried; “ I would do something 
for his sake now if I might, but I cannot. If I had but re¬ 
sisted the disease in me for the sake of serving him, I might 
have been able now; but my chance is over; I cannot now; 
I have too much pain. And death looks such a different 
thing now 1 I used to think of it only as a kind of going to 
sleep, easy though sad—sad, I mean, in the eyes of mourning 
friends. But, alas ! I have no friends now that my husband 
is gone. I never dreamed of him going first. He loved me— 
indeed he did, though you will hardly believe it, but I always 
took it as a matter of course. I never saw how beautiful and 
unselfish he was till he was gone. I have been selfish and 


Mrs* Cromwell Goes, 


1^7 

stupid and dull, and my sins have found me out. A great 
darkness has fallen upon me, and, although weary of life, in¬ 
stead of longing for death, I shrink from it with horror. My 
cough will not let me sleep j there is nothing but weariness in 
my body and despair in ray heart. Oh how black and dreary 
the nights are! I think of the time in your house as of an 
earthly paradise. But where is the heavenly paradise I used 
to dream of then ? ” 

“ Would it content you,” I asked, to be able to dream of 
it again ? ” 

“ No; no. I want something very different now. Those 
fancies look so uninteresting and stupid now! All I want 
now is to hear God say, * I forgive you.’ And my husband 
—I must have troubled him sorely. You don’t know how 
good he was, Mrs. Percivale. He made no pretences like 
silly me.—Do you know,” she went on, lowering her voice, 
and speaking with something like horror in its tone—“ Do you 
know— I cannot bear hymns ! ” 

As she said it, she looked up in my face half-terrified with 
the anticipation of the horror she expected to see manifested 
there. I could not help smiling. The case was not one for 
argument of any kind : I thought for a moment, then merely 
repeated the verse:— 

** When the law threatens endless death, 

Upon the awful hill. 

Straightway from her consuming breath. 

My soul goeth higher still; 

Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain. 

And maketh him her home, 

Whence she will not go out again, 

And where death cannot come.” 

“ Ah! that is good,’* she said, “—if only I could get to 
him ! But I cannot get to him. He is so far off! He seems 
to he—nowhere.” 

I think she was going to say nobody^ but changed the word 


328 The Vicar's Daughter. 

“ If you felt for a moment how helpless and wretched I 
feel, especially in the early morning,” she went on; “ how 
there seems nothing to look for, and no help to be had ; you 
would pity rather than blame me, though I know I deserve 
blame. I feel as if all the heart and soul and strength and 
mind with which we are told to love God, had gone out of 
me—or rather as if I had never had any. I doubt if I ever 
had. I tried very hard for a long time to get a sight of 
Jesus, to feel myself in his presence j but it was of no use, and 
I have quite given it up now.” 

1 made her lie on the sofa, and sat down beside her. 

“ Do you think,” I said, “ that any one, before he came, 
could have imagined such a visitor to the world as Jesus 
Christ?” 

“ I suppose not,” she answered listlessly. 

“ Then no more can you come near him now, by trying to 
imagine him. You cannot represent to yourself the reality, 
the being who can comfort you. In other words, you cannot 
take him into your heart. He only knows himself, and he only 
can reveal himself to you. And not until he does so, can you 
find any certainty or any peace.” 

“ But he doesn’t—he won’t reveal himself to me.” 

“ Suppose you had forgotten what some friend of your child¬ 
hood was like—say, if it were possible—your own mother; 
suppose you could not recall a feature of her face, or the 
colour of her eyes; and suppose that, while you were very 
miserable about it, you remembered all at once that you had a 
portrait of her in an old desk you had not opened for years 
what would you do ? ” 

“ Go and get it,” she answered like a child at the Sunday- 
school. 

“Then why shouldn’t you do so now? You have such a 
portrait of Jesus—far truer and more complete than any other 
kind of portrait can be—the portrait his own deeds and words 
give us of him.” 

“ I see what you mean; but that is all about long-ago, 


Mrs, Cromwell Goes, 329 

and I want him now. That is in a book, and I want him in 
my heart.” 

** How are you to get him into your heart ? How could you 
have him there except by knowing him? But perhaps you 
think you do know him ? ” 

“ I am certain I do not know him—at least as I want to 
know him,” she said. 

‘‘No doubt,” I wtnt on, “he can speak to your heart with¬ 
out the record, and, I think, is speaking to you now, in this 
very want of him you feel. But how could he show himself to 
you otherwise than by helping you to understand the revela¬ 
tion of himself which it cost him such labour to afford ? If the 
story were millions of years old, so long as it was true, it would 
be all the same as if it had been ended only yesterday; for, 
being what he represented himself, he never can change. To 
know what he was then, is to know what he is now.” 

“ But if I knew him so, that wouldn’t be to have him with 
me.” 

“ No; but in that knowledge he might come to you. It is by 
the door of that knowledge that his spirit, which is himself, 
comes into the souL You would at least be more able to 
pray to him ; you would know what kind of a being you had to 
cry to. You would thus come nearer to him ; and no one 
ever drew nigh to him to whom he did not also draw nigh. If 
you would but read the story as if you had never read it before 
— as if you were reading the history of a man you heard of for 
the first time—” 

“ Surely you’re not a Unitarian, Mrs. Percivale ! ” she said, 
half lifting her head and looking at me with a dim terror in her 
pale eyes. 

“ God forbid ! ” I answered. “ But I would that many who 
think they know better believed in him half as much as many 
Unitarians do. It is only by understanding and believing in 
that humanity of his, which in such pain and labour manifested 
his Godhead, that we can come to know it—know that God¬ 
head, I mean, in virtue of which alone he was a true and per- 


330 


The Vicaf^s Daughter. 

feet man—that Godhead which alone can satisfy with peace 
and hope the poorest human soul — for it also is the offspring 
of God” 

I ceased, and for some moments she sat silent. Then she 
said feebly,— 

“There’s a Bible somewhere in the room.” 

I found it, and read the story of the woman who came behind 
him in terror, and touched the hem of his garment. I could 
hardly read it for the emotion it caused in myself; and when 
I ceased I saw her weeping silently. 

A servant entered with the message that Mr. Percivale had 
called for me. 

“ I cannot see him to-day,” she sobbed. 

“ Of course not,” I replied. “ I must leave you now, but 
I will come again—come often if you like.” 

“ You are as kind as ever! ” she returned, with a fresh 
burst of tears. “Will you come and be with me when— 
when— ? ” 

She could not finish for sobs. 

“ I will,” I said, knowing well what she meant. 

This is how I imagined the change to have come about: 
what had seemed her faith had been in a great measure but her 
hope and imagination occupying themselves with the forms of 
the religion towards which all that was highest in her nature 
dimly urged. The two characteristics of amiability and 
selfishness, not unfrequently combined, rendered it easy for her 
to deceive herself, or rather conspired to prevent her from un¬ 
deceiving herself as to the quality and worth of her religion. 
For if she had been other than amiable, the misery following 
the outbreaks of temper which would have been of certain 
occurrence in the state of her health, would have made her 
aware in some degree of her moral condition; and if her 
thoughts had not been centred upo” herself, she would, in her 
care for others, have learned her own helplessness; and the 
devotion of her good husband, not then accepted merely as a 
natural homage to her worth, would have shown itself as a love 


Mrs, Cromwell Goes, 


331 

beyond her deserts, and would have roused t ne longing to be 
worthy of it. She saw now that he must have imagined her 
far better than she was; but she had not meant to deceive 
him: she had but followed the impulses of a bright, shallow 
nature. 

But that last epithet bids me pause and remember that my 
father has taught me, and that I have found the lesson true, 
that there is no such thing as a shallow nature; every nature 
is infinitely deep, for the works of God are everlasting. Also 
there is no nature that is not shallow to what it must become. 
I suspect every nature must have the subsoil ploughing of 
sorrow, before it can recognize either its present poverty or its 
possible wealth. 

When her husband died, suddenly, of apoplexy, she was 
stunned for a time, gradually awaking to a miserable sense of 
unprotected loneliness—so much the more painful for her 
weakly condition, and the over-care to which she had been 
accustomed. She was an only child, and had become an 
orphan within a year or two after her early marriage. Left 
thus without shelter, like a delicate plant whose house of glass 
has been shattered, she speedily recognized her true con¬ 
dition. With no one to heed her whims, and no one capable 
of sympathizing with the genuine misery which supervened, 
her disease gathered strength rapidly, her lamp went out, and 
she saw no light beyond, for the smoke of that lamp had 
dimmed the windows at which the stars would have looked in. 
When life became dreary, her fancies, despoiled of the halo 
they had cast on the fogs of selfish comfort, ceased to interest 
her; and the future grew a vague darkness, an uncertainty 
teeming with questions to which she had no answer. Hence¬ 
forth she was conscious of life only as a weakness, as the want 
of a deeper life to hold it up. Existence had become a during 
faint, and self hateful. She saw that she was poor and mise¬ 
rable and blind and naked, that she had never had faith fit 
to support her. 

But out of this darkness dawned at least a twilight— so 


332 The Vicar's Daughter. 

gradual, so slow, that 1 cannot tell when or how the darkness 
began to melt. She became aware of a deeper and simpler 
need than hitherto she had known—the need of life in herself 
—the life of the Son of God. I went to see her often. At the 
time when I began this history, I was going every other day— 
sometimes oftener, for her end seemed to be drawing nigh. 
Her weakness had greatly increased; she could but just walk 
across the room, and was constantly restless. She had no 
great continuous pain, but oft-returning sharp fits of it. She 
looked genuinely sad, and her spirits never recovered them¬ 
selves. She seldom looked out of the window; the daylight 
seemed to distress her; flowers were the only links between 
her and the outer world—wild ones, for the scent of greenhouse- 
flowers, and even that of most garden ones, she could not bear. 
She had been very fond of music, but could no longer endure 
her piano: every note seemed struck on a nerve. But she was 
generally quiet in her mind, and often peaceful. The more 
her body decayed about her, the more her spirit seemed to 
come alive. It was the calm of a grey evening, not so lovely 
as a golden sunset or a silvery moonlight, but more sweet than 
either. She talked little of her feelings, but evidently longed 
after the words of our Lord. As she listened to some of them, 
I could see the eyes which had now grown dim with suffering, 
gleam with the light of holy longing and humble adoration. 

For some time she often referred to her coming departure, 
and confessed that she feared death,—not so much what 
might be on the other side, as the dark way itself - the struggle, 
the torture, the fainting; but by degrees her allusions to it be¬ 
came rarer, and at length ceased almost entirely. Once I said 
to her,— 

“ Are you afraid of death still, Eleanor ? ” 

**No—not much,” she replied, after a brief pause. “He 
may do with me whatever he likes.” 

Knowing so well what Marion could do to comfort and 
support, and therefore desirous of bringing them together, I 
took her one day with me. But certain that the thought of 


Mrs. Cromwell Goes, 


333 


seeing a stranger would render my poor Eleanor uneasy, and 
that what discomposure a sudden introduction might cause, 
would speedily vanish in Marion^s presence, I did not tell her 
what I was going to do. Nor in this did I mistake. Before 
we left, it was plain that Marion had a far more soothing in¬ 
fluence upon her than I had myself. She looked eagerly for 
her next visit, and my mind was now more at peace concerning 
her. 

One evening, after listening to some stories from Marion 
about her friends, Mrs. Cromwell said: 

“ Ah, Miss Clare—to think I might have done something for 
him by doing it for them ! Alas ! I have led a useless life, and 
am dying out of this world without having borne any fruit I 
Ah me ! me ! ” 

“ You are doing a good deal for him now,” said Marion, 
“ — and hard work too! ” she added, “ harder far than 
mine.” 

“ I am only dying,” she returned—so sadly ! 

“You are enduring chastisement,” said Marion. “The 
Lord gives one one thing to do and another another. We 
have no right to wish for other work than he gives us. It is 
rebellious and unchildlike, whatever it may seem. Neither 
have we any right to wish to be better in our way; we must 
wish to be better in hisl' 

“ But I should like to do something for him ; bearing is only 
for myself. Surely, I may wish that ? ” 

“ No, you may not. Bearing is not only for yourself. You 
are quite wrong in thinking you do nothing for him in en¬ 
during,” returned Marion, with that abrupt decision of hers 
which seemed to some like rudeness. “What is the will of 
God ? Is it not your sanctification ? And why did he make 
the captain of our salvation perfect through suffering ? Was it 
not that he might, in like manner, bring many sons into glory ? 
Then if you are enduring, you are working with God—for the 
perfection through suffering of one more ; you are working for 
God in yourself, that the will of God may be done in you; 


334 Vicars Daughter, 

that he may have his very own way with you. It is the only 
work he requires of you now: do it not only willingly then, 
but contentedly. To make people good is all his labour : be 
good, and you are a fellow-worker with God—in the highest 
region of labour. He does not want you for other people— 
yety 

At the emphasis Marion laid on the last word, Mrs. Crom¬ 
well glanced sharply up. A light broke over her face : she had 
understood, and with a smile was silent. 

One evening, when we were both with her, it had grown very 
sultry and breathless. 

“ Isn’t it very close, dear Mrs. Percivale ? ” she said. 

I rose to get a fan, and Marion leaving the window as if 
moved by a sudden resolve, went and opened the piano. 
Mrs. Cromwell made a hasty motion, as if she must prevent 
her. But, such was my faith in my friend’s soul as well as 
heart, in her divine taste as well as her human faculty, that I 
ventured to lay my hand on Mrs. Cromwell’s. It was enough 
for sweetness like hers; she yielded instantly, and lay still, 
evidently nerving herself to suffer. But the first movement 
stole so “ soft and soul-like ” on her ear, trembling as it were 
on the border-land between sound and silence, that she missed 
the pain she expected, and found only the pleasure she 
looked not for. Marion’s hands made the instrument sigh and 
sing, not merely as with a human voice, but as with a human 
soul. Her own voice next evolved itself from the dim uncer¬ 
tainty, in sweet proportions and delicate modulations, stealing 
its way into the heart, to set first one chord, then another, 
vibrating, until the whole soul was filled with responses. If I 
add that her articulation was as nearly perfect as the act of 
singing will permit, my reader may well believe that a song of 
hers would do what a song might. 

Where she got the song she then sung, she always avoids 
telling me. I had told her all I knew and understood con¬ 
cerning Mrs. Cromwell—and have my suspicions. This is the 
Fong. 


Mrs. Cromwell Goes^ 


33S 


I fancy I hear a whisper 
As of leaves in a gentle air: 

Is it wrong, I wonder, to fancy 
It may be the tree up there— 

The tree that heals the nations, 

Growing amidst the street, 

And dropping, for who will gather, 

Its apples at their feet. 

I fancy I hear a rushing 
As of waters down a slope : 

Is it wrong, I wonder, to fancy 
It may be the river of hope— 

The river of crystal waters 

That flows from the very throne, 

And runs through the street of the city 
With a softly jubilant tone. 

I fancy a twilight round me, 

And a wandering of the breeze, 

With a hush in that high city, 

And a going in the trees. 

But I know there will be no night there-* 
No coming and going day ; 

For the holy face of the Father 
Will be perfect light alway. 

I could do without the darkness. 

And better without the sun ; 

But oh, I should like a twilight 
After the day was done ! 

Would he lay his hand on his forehead. 
On his hair as white as wool. 

And shine one hour through his finger% 
Till the shadow had made me cool? 

But the thought is very foolish : 

If that face I did but see. 

All else would bo all forgotten— 

River and twilight and tree; 


33 ^ The Vicar's Daughter, 

I should seek, I should care for nothings 
Beholding his countenance; 

And fear only to lose one glimmer 
By one single sideway glance. 

*Tis again but a foolish fancy 
To picture the countenance so 
Which is shining in all our spirits, 

Making them white as snow. 

Come to me, shine in me, master, 

And I care not for river or tree; 

Care for no sorrow or crying 
If only thou shine in me. 

I would lie on my bed for ages. 

Looking out on the dusty street. 

Where whisper nor leaves nor waters, 

Nor anything cool and sweet— 

At my heart this ghastly fainting, 

And this burning in my blood, 

If only I knew thou wast with me— 

Wast with me and making me good. 

When she rose from the piano, Mrs. Cromwell stretched out 
her hand for hers, and held it some time, unable to speak. 
Then she said,— 

“ That has done me good, I hope. I will try to be more 
patient, for I think he is teaching me.” 

She died at length in my arms. I cannot linger over that 
last time. She suffered a good deal, but dying people are 
generally patient. She went without a struggle. The last 
words I heard her utter were, “ Yes, Lordafter which she 
breathed but once. A half-smile came over her face, which 
froze upon it, and remained, until the coffin-lid covered it. But 
I shall see it, I trust, a whole smile some day. 


Ancestral Wisdom, 


337 


CHAPTER XL. 

ANCESTRAL WISDOM. 

I DID think of having a chapter about children before finish¬ 
ing my book, but this is not going to be the kind of chapter 
I thought of. Like mothers, I suppose, I think myself an 
authority on the subject, and, which is to me more assuring 
than any judgment of my own, my father says that I have 
been in a measure successful in bringing mine up—only 
they’re not brought up very far yet Hence arose the tempta¬ 
tion to lay down a few practical rules I had proved and found 
answer. But as soon as I began to contemplate the writing 
of them down I began to imagine So-and-so and So-and-so 
attempting to carry them out, and saw what a dreadful muddle 
they would make of it, and what mischief would thence lie at 
my door. Only one thing can be worse than the attempt to 
carry out rules whose principles are not understood, and that 
is the neglect of those which are understood and seen to be 
right. Suppose, for instance, I were to say that corporal 
punishment was wholesome, involving less suffering than most 
other punishments, more effectual in the result, and leaving 
no sting or sense of unkindness; whereas mental punishment 
considered by many to be more refined, and therefore less 
degrading, was often cruel to a sensitive child, and deaden¬ 
ing to a stubborn one suppose I said this, and a woman like 
my aunt Millicent w^ere to take it up :—/ier whippings would 
have no more effect than if her rod were made of butterflies* 
feathers; they would be a mockery to her children, and bring 
law into contempt; while if a certain father I know were to 
be convinced by my arguments, he would fill his children with 
terror of him now, and with hatred afterwards. Of the last- 
mentioned result of severity I know at least one instance. At 
present, the father to whom I refer disapproves of whipping 

z 


338 The Vicat^s Daughter, 

even a man who has been dancing on his wife w; Ji hob-nailed 
shoes, because it would tend to brutalize him. But he taunts, 
and stings, and confines in solitude for lengthened periods 
high-spirited boys, and that for faults which I should consider 
very venial. 

Then again, if I were to lay down the rule that we must 
be as tender of the feelings of our children as if they were 
angel-babies who had to learn, alas 1 to understand our rough 
ways—how would that be taken by a certain French couple I 
know, who, not appearing until after the dinner to which they 
had accepted an invitation was over, gave as the reason—that 
it had been quite out of their power; for darling Desirde, their 
only child, had declared they shouldn’t go, and that she vrould 
cry if they did ;—nay, went so far as to insist on their going 
to bed, which they were, however reluctant, compelled to do ? 
They had actually undressed and pretended to retire for the 
night ; but as soon as she was safely asleep, rose and joined 
their friends, calm in the consciousness of abundant excuse. 

The marvel to me is that so many children turn out so 
well. 

After all, I think there can be no harm in mentioning a few 
general principles laid down by my father. They are such as 
to commend themselves most to the most practical 

And first for a few negative ones. 

1. Never in to disobedience; and never threaten what 
you are not prepared to carry out. 

2 . Never lose your temper. I do not say Never he angry. 
Anger is sometimes indispensable, especially where there has 
been anything mean, dishonest, or cruel But anger is very 
different from loss of temper.' 

* My aunt Millicent is always saying, “ I grieeeved with you.” 
But the announcement begets no sign of responsive grief on the 
face of the stolid child before her. She never whipped a child in 
her life. If she had, and it had but roused some positive anger in 
the child instead of .that undertone of complaint which is always 
oozing out of every one of them, I think it would have been a gain. 


Ancestral Wisdom, 


339 

3. Of all things, never sneer at them; and be careful, even, 
how you rally them. 

4. Do not try to work on their feelings. Feelings are far 
too delicate things to be used for tools. It is like taking the 
mainspring out of your watch and notching it for a saw. It may 
be a wonderful saw, but how fares your watch ? Especially 
avoid doing so in connexion with religious things, for so you 
will assuredly deaden them to all that is finest. Let your 
feelings, not your efforts on theirs, affect them with a sym¬ 
pathy the more powerful that it is not forced upon them ; and 
in order to this, avoid being too English in the hiding of 
your feelings. A man’s own family has a right to share in his 
gooit feelings. 

5. Never show that you doubt except you are able to con- 
vret. To doubt an honest child is to do what you can to 
make a liar of him; and to believe a liar, if he is not altogether 
shameless, is to shame him. 

The common-minded masters in schools who, unlike the 
ideal Arnold, are in the habit of disbelieving boys, have a large 
share in making the liars they so often are. Certainly the 
vileness ofa lie is not the same in one who knows that what¬ 
ever he says will be regarded with suspicion ; and the master 
who does not know an honest boy after he has been some 
time in his class, gives good reason for doubting whether he 

But the poor lady is one of the whiny-piny people, and must be in 
preparation for a development of which I have no prevision. The 
only stroke of originality I thought I knew of her was this. To the 
register of her children’s births, baptisms, and confirmations, 
entered on a grandly ornamented fly-leaf of the family bible, she 
has subjoined the record of every disease each has had, with the 
year, month, and day, (and in one case the hour,) when each dis¬ 
temper made its appearance. After most of the main entries you 
may read—“ Cut his (or her) first tooth ”—at such a date. But, alas 
for the originality ! she has just told me that her maternal grand¬ 
mother did the same. How strange that she and my father should 
have had the same father ! If they had had the same mother too. 
I should have been utterly bewildered. 


340 


be himself an honest man, and incapable of the lying he is ready 
to attribute to all alike. 

This last is my own remark, not my father’s. I have an 
honest boy at school, and I know how he fares. I say honest, 
for though as a mother I can hardly expect to be believed, I 
have ground for believing that he would rather die than lie. 
I know I would rather he died than lied. 

6 . Instil no religious doctrine apart from its duty. If it 
have no duty as its necessary embodiment, the doctrine may 
well be regarded as doubtful. 

7. Do not be hard on mere quarrelling, which, like a storm 
in nature, is often helpful in clearing the moral atmosphere. 
Stop it by a judgment between the parties. But be severe as 
to the kind of quarrelling, and the temper shown in it. Espe¬ 
cially give no quarter to any unfairness arising from greed 
or spite. Use your strongest language with regard to that. 

Now for a few of my father’s positive rules. 

1. Always let them come to you, and always hear what they 
have to say. If they bring a complaint always examine into 
it, and dispense pure justice, and nothing but justice. 

2. Cultivate a love of giving fair-play. Every one, of 
course, likes to receive fair play, but no one ought to be left 
to imagine therefore, that he loves fair-play» 

3. Teach from the very first, from the infancy capable of 
sucking a sugar-plum, to share with neighbours. Never refuse 
the offering a child brings you except you have a good reason 
—and give it. And never pretend to partake: that involves 
hideous possibilities in its effects on the child. 

The necessity of giving a reason for refusing a kindness, has 
no relation to what is supposed by some to be the necessity 
of giving a reason with every command. There is no such 
necessity. Of course there ought to be a reason in every 
command. That it may be desirable sometimes, to explain it, 
is all my father would allow. 

4. Allow a great deal of noise—as much as is fairly en¬ 
durable ; but the moment they seem getting beyond their own 


Ancestral Wisdom, 


341 

control, stop the noise at once. Also, put a stop at once to 
all fretting and grumbling. 

5. Favour the development of each in the direction of his 
own bent Help him to develope himself; but do not push 
development To do so is most dangerous. 

6. Mind the moral nature, and it will take care of the in¬ 
tellectual. In other words, the best thing for the intellect is 
the cultivation of the conscience, not in casuistry, but in con¬ 
duct It may take longer to arrive, but the end will be the 
highest possible health, vigour, and ratio of progress. 

7. Discourage emulation, and insist on duty—not often, but 
strongly. 

Having written these out, chiefly from notes I had made 
of a long talk with my father, I gave them to Percivale to 
read 

‘‘ Rather—ponderous, don’t you think, for weaving into a 
narrative ? ” was his remark. 

“ My narrative is full of things far from light,’* I returned. 

‘‘I didn’t say they were heavy, you know. That is quite 
another thing.” 

“ I am afraid you mean generally uninteresting. But there 
are parents who might make them useful, and the rest of my 
readers could skip them.” 

“ I only mean that a narrative, be it ever so serious, must 
not entrench on the moral essay or sermon.” 

“ It is much too late, I fear, to tell me that But, please, 
remember I am not giving the precepts as of my own dis¬ 
covery, though I have sought to verify them by practice, but 
as what they are—my father’s.” 

He did not seem to see the bearing of the argument 
I want my book to be useful,” I said. “ As a mother, 
I want to share the help I have had myself, with other 
mothers.” 

“ I am only speaking from the point of art,” he returned 

“And that’s a point I have never thought of—any farther, 
at least, than writing as good English as I might.” 


342 


The Vicar's Danghicr, 

“ Do you mean to say you have never thou^i^ht of the shape 
of the book your monthly papers would make ? ” 

“Yes. — I don’t think I have.—Scarcely at all, I believe.” 

“ Then you ought.” 

“ But I know nothing about that kind of thing. I haven’t 
an idea in my head concerning the art of book-making. And 
it is too late, so far at least as this book is concerned, to 
begin to study it now.” 

“ I wonder how my pictures would get on in that way.” 

“ You can see how my book has got on. Well or ill, there 
it all but is. I had to do with facts and not with art.” 

“ But even a biography, in the ordering of its parts, in the 
arrangement of its light and shade, and in the harmony o^ 
the—” 

“ It’s too late, I tell you, husband. The book is all but 
done. Besides, one who would write a biography after thfi 
fashion of a picture, would probably, even wiihout attributing 
a single virtue that was not present, or suppressing a single 
fault that was, yet produce a false book. The principle I Lave 
followed has been to try from the first to put as much 'Tlue, 
that is, as much truth, as I could, into my story. I^rhaps 
instead of those maxims of my father’s for the education of 
children, you would have preferred such specimens of your 
own children’s sermons as you made me read to you for the 
twentieth time yesterday ? ” 

Instead of smiling with his own quiet kind smile, as he 
worked on at his picture of St. Athanasius with “ no friend but 
God and Death,” he burst into a merry laugh, and said,— 

“A capital idea! If you give those, word for word, 1 
shall yield the precepts.” 

“ Are you out of your five wits, husband ? ” I exclaimed. 
“ Would you have everybody take me for the latest incarna¬ 
tion of the oldest insanity in the world—that of maternity ? 
But I am really an idiot, for you could never have meant 

“I do most soberly and distinctly mean it. They would 


Ancestral Wisdom, 


343 


amuse your readers very much, and, without offending those 
who may prefer your father’s maxims to your children's ser¬ 
mons, would incline those who might otherwise vote the former 
a bore, to regard them with the clemency resulting from 
amusement.” 

“ But I desire no such exercise of clemency. The precepts 
are admirable; and those need not take them who do not 
like them.” 

“ So the others can skip the sermons ; but I am sure they 
will give a few mothers at least a little amusement. They 
will prove besides that you follow your own rule of putting a 
very small quantity of sage into the stuffing of your goslings; 
as also that you have succeeded jn making them capable of 
manifesting what nonsense is indigenous in them. I think 
them very funny: that may be paternal prejudice ; you think 
them very silly as well: that may be maternal solicitude. 1 
suspect that, the more of a philosopher any one of your 
readers is, the more suggestive will he find these genuine 
utterances of an age at which the means of expression so 
much exceed the matter to be expressed.” 

The idea began to look not altogether so absurd as at first: 
and a little more argument sufficed to make me resolve to 
put the absurdities themselves to the test of passing leisurely 
through my brain while I copied them out possibly for the 
press. 

The. result is that I am going to risk printing them, deter¬ 
mined, should I find afterwards that I have made a blunder, 
to throw the whole blame upon my husband. 

What still makes me shrink the most is the recollection 
of how often I have condemned, as too silly to repeat, things 
which reporting mothers evidently regarded as proofs of a 
stupendous intellect. But the folly of these constitutes the 
chief part of their merit; and I do not see how I can be mis¬ 
taken for supposing them clever, except it be in regard of a 
glimmer of purpose now and then, and the occasional mani¬ 
festation of the cunning of the stump orator, with his subter- 


344 Vicat^s Daughter. 

fuges to conceal his embarrassment when he finds his ofl 
failing him, and his lamp burning low. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

CHILD NONSENSE. 

One word of introductory explanation. 

During my husband’s ijlness, Marion came often, but, 
until he began to recover, would generally spend wit! the 
children the whole of the time she had to spare, not even 
permitting me to know that she was in the house. It was a 
great thing for them; for although they were well enough 
cared for, they were necessarily left to themselves a good deal 
more than hitherto. Hence perhaps it came that they betook 
themselves to an amusement not uncommon with children, of 
which I had as yet seen nothing amongst them. 

One evening, when my husband had made a little progress 
towards recovery, Marion came to sit with me in his room for 
an hour. 

** IVe brought you something I want to read to you,” she 
said, “ if you think Mr. Percivale can bear it,” 

I told her I believed he could, and she proceeded to explain 
what it was. 

“ One morning, when I went into the nursery, I found the 
children playing at church—or rather at preaching, for except 
a few minutes of singing, the preaching occupied the whole 
time. There were two clergymen, Ernest and Charles, alter¬ 
nately incumbent and curate. The chief duty of the curate 
for the time being was to lend his aid to the rescue of his 
incumbent from any difficulty in which the extemporaneous 
character of his discourse might land him.” 


Child Nonsense^ 345 

I interrupt Marion to mention that the respective ages of 
Ernest and Charles were then eight and six. 

“ The pulpit,’* she continued, “ was on the top of the cup¬ 
board under the cuckoo-clock, and consisted of a chair and a 
cushion. There were prayer-books in abundance, of which 
neither of them, I am happy to say, made other than a pre¬ 
tended use for reference. Charles, indeed, who was preach¬ 
ing when I entered, can't read; but both have far too much 
reverence to use sacred words in their games, as the sermons 
themselves will instance : I took down almost every word 
they said, frequent embarrassments and interruptions enabling 
me to do so. Ernest was acting as clerk, and occasionally 
prompted the speaker when his eloquence failed him, or re¬ 
proved members of the congregation, which consisted of the 
two nurses and the other children, who were inattentive. 
Charles spoke with a good deal of unction^ and had quite a 
professional air when he looked down on the big open book, 
referred to one or other of the smaller ones at his side, or 
directed looks of reprehension at this or that hearer. You 
would have thought he had cultimted the imitation of popular 
preachers, whereas he tells me he has been to church only 
three times. I am sorry 1 cannot give the opening remarks, 
for I lost them by being late ; but what I did hear was this.” 

She then read from her paper as follows—and lent it me 
afterwards. I merely copy it. 

“ Once,”— {Charles was proceeding when Marion entered )— 
“ there lived an aged man, and another who was a very aged 
man ; and the very aged man was going to die, and every 
one but the aged man thought the other, the very aged man, 
wouldn’t die.—I do this to explain it to you.—He, the man 
who was really going to die, was—I will look in the dic¬ 
tionary—” {He looks in the book^ and gives out with much 
confidence) “—was two thousand and eighty-eight years old. 
Well, the other man was —well, then, the other man ’at knew 
he was going to die, was about four thousand and two—not 
nearly so old, you see.”— (Here Charles whispers with Ernest^ 


346 The Vtca/s Daughter* 

and then announces very loud) —is out of St. James.—The 
very aged man had a wife and no ':hildren, and the other had 
no wife but a great many children. The fact was —////V wa^i 
how it was—the wife died, and so he had the children 
Well, the man I spoke of first, well, he died in the middle ot 
the night {A look as much as to say^ “ There / what do you 
think of that V^) —“an’ nobody but the aged man knew he 
was going to die. Well, in the morning, when his wife goi. 
up, she spoke to him, and he was dead ! ”— pause.) — 
“Perfectly, sure enough—— {The 7 t. with a change oj 
voice and manner') —“ He wasn’t really dead, because you 
knoyj— (abruptly and nervously) —“Shut the door!—you 
know where he went, because in the morning next day—’* 
\He pauses and looks round. Ernes-t^ out of a book., prompts — 
“The angels take him away”) “—came the angels to take 
him away, up to where you know.”—(<^// solemn. He resunm 
quickly, with a chajige of manner) —“ They, all the rest, died 
of grief. Now you must expect, as the> all died of grief, 
that lots of angels must have come to take them away.— 
Freddy will go when the sermon isn’t ove.’- 1 That is such a 
bother!” 

At this point, Marion paused in her reading, and resumed 
the narrative form. 

“ Freddy however was too much for them; so Ernest be¬ 
took himself to the organ, which was a chest of drawers, the 
drawers doing duty as stops, while Freddy went up to the pulpit 
to say ‘Good-bye,’ and shake hards, for which he was mildly 
reproved by both his brothers.” 

My husband and I were so much amused, that Marion said 
she had another sermon, also preached by Charles, on the 
same day, after a short interval; and at our request she read 
it. Here it is. ■ 

“Once upon a time—along while ago, in a little— Ready 
now ?—Well, there lived in a rather big house, with quite clean 
windows—it was in winter, so nobody noticed them—but they 
were quite white, they were so clean. There lived some angels 


Vhtld Nonsense, 


347 

in the house—it was in the air, nobody knew why, but it did. 
No, I don’t think it did—I dunno, but there lived in it lots of 
children—two hundred and thirty-two—and they—Oh ! I’m 
gettin’ distracted! It is too hdidV—{Quiet is restored^ — 
“ Their mother and father had died, but they were very rich. 
Now you see what a heap of children, two hundred and 
thirty-two ! and yet it seemed like one to them, they were so 
rich. That was it! it seemed like one to them because they 
were so rich. Now the children knew what to get, and I’ll ex¬ 
plain to you now why they knew—and this is how they knew. 
The angels came down on the eaith, and told them their 
mother had sent messages to them ; and their mother and 
father— Don't talk ! I’m gettin’ extracted ! ” {Puts his hand 
to his head in a frenzied manner.') “Now, my brother,” {This 
severely to a still inatteiitive member.) “ I’ll tell you what the 
angels told them—what to get. What—how—now I will tell 
you how—yes, how they knew what they were to eat. Well, the 
fact was that— Freddy is just towards my face, and he’s laugh¬ 
ing !— I’m going to explain. The mother and father had the 
wings on, and so, of course— Ernest, I want you—” {They 
whisperi) “ — they were he and she angels, and they told them 
what to have. Well, one thing was—shall I tell you what it 
was ?—Look at two hundred and two in another book— one 
thing was a leg of mutton. Of course, as the mother and 
father were angels, they had to fly up again. Now I’m 
going to explain how they got it done. They had four 
servants and one cook, so that would be five. Well, this 
cook did them. The eldest girl was sixteen, and her name 
was Snowdrop, because she had snowy arms and cheeks, and 
was a very nice girl. The eldest boy was seventeen, and his 
name was John. He always told the cook what they’d have 
—no, the girl did that And the boy was now grown up. So 
they would be mother and father.” {Signs of dissent among the 
audience.) “ Of course, when they were so old, they would be 
mother and father, and master of the servants. And they-were 
very happy, but - they didn’t quite like it. And—and—" 


348 The Vicar's Daughter. 

{with a great burst) you wouldn^t like it your mother were 
to die ! And I’ll end it next Sunday. Let us sing.” 

“ The congregation then sung Curly LocksT said Marion, 
“ and dispersed—Ernest complaining that Charley gave them 
such large qualities of numbers, and there weren’t so many in 
the whole of his book. After a brief interval the sermon was 
resumed.” 

“ Text is No. 66. I’ve a good congregation ! I got to where 
the children did not like it without their mother and father. 
Well, you must remember this was a long while ago, so what 
I’m going to speak about could be possible. Well, their house 
was on the top of a high and steep hill, and at the bottom, a 
little from the hill was a knignt’s house. There were three 
knights living in it. Next to it was stables with three horses in 
it. Sometimes they went up to this house, and wondered what 
was in it. They never knew, but saw the angels come. The 
knights were out all day, and only came home for meals. And 
they wondered what on earth the angels were doin’—goin’ in the 
house. They found out what —what, and the question was— 
I’ll explain what it was. Ernest, come here.” {Ernest remarks 
to the audienccy “ I’m curate,” and to Charles^ ‘‘ Well but, 
Charles, you’re goin’ to explain, you know and Charles re- 
sumes.) “ The fact was that this was—If you’d like to explain 
it more to yourselves, you’d better look in your books, No. 1828. 
Before, the angels didn’t speak loud, so the knights couldn’t 
hear; now J:hey spoke louder, so that the knights could visit 
them ’cause they knew their names. They hadn’t many 
visitors, but they had the knights in there, and that’s all.” 

I am still very much afraid that all this nonsense will hardly 
be interesting even to parents. But I may as well suffer for a 
sheep as a lamb, and as I had an opportunity of hearing two 
such sermons myself not long after, I shall give them, trusting 
they will occupy far less space in print than they do in my 
foolish heart. 

It was Ernest who was in the pulpit and just commencing 
his discourse when I entered the nursery, and sat down with 


Child Nonsense, 


349 

the congregation. Sheltered by a clothes-horse, apparently 
set up for a screen, I took out my pencil, and reported on 
a flyleaf of the book I had been reading. 

“ My brother was goin’ to preach about the wicked : I will 
preach about the good. Twenty-sixth day. In the time of 
Elizabeth there was a very old house. It was so old that it was 
pulled down, and a quite new one was built instead. Some 
people who lived in it did not like it so much now as they did 
when it was old. I take their part, you know, and think they 
were quite right in preferring the old one to the ugly bare new 
one. They left it—sold it—and got into another old house 
instead.” 

Here I am sorry to say his curate interjected the scornful 
remark,— 

“ He’s not lookin’ in the book a bit ! ” 

But the preacher went on without heeding the attack on 
his orthodoxy. 

‘‘This other old house was still more uncomfortable—it 
was very draughty; the gutters were always leaking; and they 
wished themselves back in the new house. So you see, if you 
wish for a better thing, you don’t get it so good after all.” 

“ Ernest, that is about the bad, after all ! ” cried Charles. 

“ Well, it’s silly” remarked Freddy severely. 

“ But I wrote it myself,” pleaded the preacher from the 
pulpit, and, in consideration of the fact, he was allowed to go 
on. 

“ I was reading about them being always uncomfortable. At 
last they decided to go back to their own house which they 
had sold. They had to pay so much to get it back, that 
they had hardly any money left, and then they got so un¬ 
happy, and the husband whipt his wife and took to drinking. 
That’s a lesson.” {Here thepreacheT^s voice became very plaintive .) 

“_That’s a lesson to show you shouldn’t try to get the better 

thing, for it turns out worse, and then you get sadder and 
everything.” 

He paused, evidently too mournful *0 proceed Freddy 


350 The Vicar's Daughter, 

again remarked that it was silly ; but Charles interposed a word 
for the preacher. 

“ It’s a good lesson, I think. A good lesson, I say,” he re¬ 
peated, as if he would not be supposed to consider it much 
of a sermon. 

But here the preacher recovered himself and summed up. 

** See how it comes—wanting to get everything, you come to 
the bad and drinking. And I think I’ll leave off here. Let us 
sing.” 

The song was Little Robin Redbreast, during which Charles 
remarked to Freddy, apparently by way of pressing home the 
lesson upon his younger brother— 

** Fancy! floggin’ his wife ! ” 

Then he got into the pulpit himself, and commenced an 
oration. 

“ Chapter eighty-eight The Wicked. —^Well, the time when 
the story was, was about Herod. There were some wicked 
people wanderin’ about there—and they—not killed them, you 
know, but—went to the judge. We shall see what they did to 
them. I tell you this to make you understand. Now the story 
begins—but I must think a little. Ernest, let’s sing Since first 
I saw your face, 

“ When the wicked man was taken then to the good judge— 
there were some good people : when I said I was going to preach 
about the wicked, I did not mean that there were no good, 
only a good lot of wicked. There were pleacemans about here, 
and they put him in prison for a few days, and then the judge 
could see about what he is to do with him. At the end of the 
few days, the judge asked him if he would stay in prison for life 
or be hanged.” 

Here arose some inquiries among the congregation as tc 
what the wicked, of whom the prisoner was one, had done 
that was wrong; to which Charles replied: 

“ Oh! they murdered and killed; they stealed, and they 
were very wicked altogether. Well,” he went on, resuming his 
discourse, ** the morning came, and the judge said, ' Get the 


Child Nonsense. 


3St 

ropes and my throne, and order the people not to come to see 
the hangin’.’ For the man was decided to be hanged. Now 
the people would come. They were the wicked, and they 
would persist in cornin’. They were the wicked, and if that 
was the fact^ the judge must do something to them. 

“Chapter eighty-nine. The Hangin*. —Well have some 
singin’ while I think.” 

Yankee Doodle was accordingly sung with much enthusiasm 
and solemnity. Then Charles resumed. 

“ Well, they had to put the other people who persisted in 
coming, in prison, till the man who murdered people was 
hanged. I think my brother will go on.” 

He descended, and gave place to Ernest, who began with 
vigour. 

“ We were reading about Herod—weren’t we ? Then the 
wicked people woidd come, and had to be put to death. They 
were on the man’s side, and they all called out that he 
hadn’t had his wish before he died, as they did in those days. 
So of course he wished for his life, and of course the judge 
w'ouldn’t let him have that wish, and so he wished to speak to 
his friends, and they let him. And the nasty wicked people 
took him away, and he was never seen in that country any 
more. And that’s enough to-day, I think. Let us sing 
Lord Lovel he stood at his castle-gate^ a-combing his milk-white 
steed.** 

At the conclusion of this mournful ballad, the congregation 
was allowed to disperse. But before they had gone far, they 
were recalled by the offer of a more secular entertainment from 
Charles, who reascended the pulpit, and delivered himself as 
follows; 

“ Well, the play is called—not a proverb or a charade it isn’t 
—it’s a play called The Birds and the Babies, Well! 

“ Once there was a little cottage and lots of little babies in it. 
Nobody knew who the babies were. They were so happy! 
Now, I can’t explain it to you how they came together; they 
had no father and mother, but they were brothers and sisters. 


352 


The Vicat^s Daughter, 

They never greiVy and they didn’t like it Now you wouldnH 
like not to grow —would you ? They had a little garden, and 
Saw a great many birds in the trees. They were happy, but 
didn’t feel happy—that’s a funny thing now ! The wicked 
fairies made them unhappy, and the good fairies made them 
happy; they gave them lots of toys. But then, how they got 
their living! 

“ Chapter second, called The Babies at Play. —The fairies 
told them what to get— that was it /—and so they got their 
living very nicely. And now I must explain what they 
played with. First was a house. A house. Another, dolls. 
They were very happy, and felt as if they had a mother and 
father, but they hadn’t, and couldn't make it out. Couldn't — 
make— it — out! 

They had little pumps and trees. Then they had babies’ 
rattles. Babies' rattles. —Oh ! I’ve said hardly anything about 
the birds—have I ?—an’ it’s called The Birds and the Babies / 
—They had lots of little pretty robins and canaries hanging 
round the ceiling, and— shall I say ?—” 

Every one listened expectant during the pause that followed. 

“— And— lived — happy — ever—after P 

The puzzle in it all is chiefly what my husband hinted at— 
why and how both the desire and the means of utterance 
should so long precede the possession of anything ripe for 
utterance. I suspect the answer must lie pretty deep in some 
metaphysical gulf or other. 

At the same time, the struggle to speak where there it so 
little to utter can hardly fail to suggest the thought of ? »'.pe 
efforts of a more pretentious and imposing character. 

But more than enough) 


Double^ Double^ Toil and Trouble, 


353 


CHAPTER XLII. 

DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE. 

I HAD for a day or two fancied that Marion was looking less 
bright than usual, as if some little shadow had fallen upon 
the morning of her life. I say mornings because, although 
Marion must now have been seven or eight and twenty, her life 
had always seemed to me lighted by a cool clear dewy 
morning sun—over whose face it now seemed as if some film 
of noonday cloud had begun to gather. Unwilling at once to 
assert the ultimate privilege of friendship, I asked her if any¬ 
thing was amiss with her friends. She answered that all was 
going on well—at least so far that she had no special anxiety 
about any of them. Encouraged by a half conscious and more 
than half sad smile, I ventured a little farther. 

“I am afraid there is something troubling you,’^ I said. 

** There is/’ she replied, something troubling me a good 
deal ; but I hope it will pass away soon.” 

The sigh which followed, however, was deep though gentle, 
and indicated a fear that the trouble might not pass so soon. 

“ I am not to ask you any questions, I suppose,” I returned. 

“Better not at present,” she answered. “lam not quite 
sure that—” 

She paused several moments before finishing her sentence, 
then added,— 

«—that I am at liberty to tell you about it.” 

“ Then don’t say another word,” I rejoined. “ Only when 1 
can be of service to you, you will let me—won’t you ? ” 

The tears rose to her eyes. 

“ I am afraid it may be some fault of mine,” she said. “ 1 
don’t know. I can’t telL I don’t understand such things.” 

She sighed again, and held her peace. 

It was enigmatical enough. One thing only was clear, that 

A a 


354 Vicai^s Daughter, 

at present I was not wanted. So I too held my peace, and in 
a few minutes Marion went, with a more affectionate leave- 
taking than usual, for her friendship was far less demonstra¬ 
tive than that of most women. 

I pondered, but it was not of much use. Of course the 6rst 
thing that suggested itself was—Could my angel be in love?— 
and with some mortal mere? The very idea was a shock, 
simply from its strangeness. Of course, being a woman, she 
might be in love; but the two ideas, Marion and love, refused 
to coalesce. And again, was it likely that such as she, her 
mind occupied with so many other absorbing interests, would 
fall in love unprovoked, unsolicited ? That indeed was not 
likely. Then if, solicited, she but returned love for love, why 
was she sad ? The new experience might, it is true, cause such 
commotion in a mind like hers as to trouble her greatly. She 
would not know what to do with it, nor where to accommodate 
her new inmate so as to keep him from meddling with affairs 
he had no right to meddle with: it was easy enough to fancy 
him troublesome in a house like hers. But surely of all women 
she might be able to meet her own liabilities. And if this were 
all, why should she have said she hoped it would soon pass ? 
That might, however, mean only that she hoped soon to get 
her guest brought amenable to the law and ordered range of her 
existing household economy. 

There was yet a conjecture, however, which seemed to suit 
the case better. If Marion knew little of what is commonly 
called love, that is, “ the attraction of correlative unlikeness,^* 
as I once heard it defined by a metaphysical friend of my 
father’s, there was no one who knew more of the tenderness of 
compassion than she; and was it not possible some one might 
be wanting to marry her to whom she could not give herself 
away ? This conjecture was at least ample enough to cover the 
facts in my possession—which were scanty indeed—in number 
hardly dual. But who was there to dare offer love to my 
saint ? Roger ? Pooh ! pooh ! Mr. Blackstone ? Ah ! I 
had seen him once lately looking at her with an expreswon of 


Double^ Double^ Toil and Trouble^ 35 ] 

more than ordinary admiration. But what man that knew 
anything of her could help looking at her with such an admira¬ 
tion ? If it was Mr. Blackstone—^why, ^ might dare—^yes, why 
should he not dare to love her—especially if he couldn’t 
help it, as, of course, he couldn’t ? Was he not one whose 
love—simply because he was a true man from the heart to the 
hands—would honour any woman, even Saint Clare—as she 
must be when the church has learned to do its business without 
the pope ? Only he mustn’t blame me, if, after all, I should 
think he offered less than he sought—or her, if, entertaining no 
question of worth whatever, she should yet refuse to listen to 
him—as truly there was more than a possibility she might. 

If it were Mr. Blackstone, certainly I knew no man who 
could understand her better, or whose modes of thinking and 
working would more thoroughly fall in with her own. True, 
he was peculiar; that is, he had kept the angles of his indi¬ 
viduality for all the grinding of the social mill; his manners 
were abrupt, and drove at the heart of things too directly, 
seldom suggesting a by-your-leave to those whose prejudices he 
overturned; true, also, that his person, though dignified, was 
somewhat ungainly—with an ungainliness, however, which I 
could well imagine a wife learning absolutely to love; but 
on the whole the thing was reasonable. Only—what would 
become of her friends ? There, I could hardly doubt, there 
was the rub! 

Let no one think, when I say we went to Mr. Blackstone’s 
church the next Sunday, that it had anything to do with these 
speculations. We often went on the first Sunday of the 
month. 

“ What’s the matter with Blackstone ? ” said my husband as 
we came home. 

“ What do you think is the matter with him ? ” I returned. 

** I don’t know. He wasn’t himself.” 

“ I thought he was more than himself,” I rejoined; “ for I 
never heard even him read the litany with such fervour.” 

“ In some of the petitions,” said Percivale, “ it amounted to 
A a 2 


356 The Vicar's Daughter* 

a suppressed agony of supplication. I am certain he is in 
trouble.” 

I told him my suspicions. 

“ Likely—very likely,” he answered, and became thoughtful. 

‘‘ But you don’t think she refused him ? ” he said at length. 

“ If he ever asked her,” I returned, “ I fear she did, for she 
is plainly in trouble too.” 

“ She’ll never stick to it,” he said. 

“ You mustn’t judge Marion by ordinary standards, I re¬ 
plied. ‘‘ You must remember she has not only found her voca¬ 
tion, but for many years proved it. I never knew her turned 
aside from what she had made up her mind to. I can hardly 
imagine her forsaking her friends to keep house for any man, 
even if she loved him with all her heart. She is dedicated as 
irrevocably as any nun, and will, with St. Paul, cling to the 
right of self-denial.” 

“ Yet what great difficulty would there be in combining the 
two sets of duties, especially with such a man as Blackstone ? 
Of all the men I know, he comes the nearest to her in his 
dev'otion to the well-being of humanity, especially of the poor. 
Did you ever know a man with such a plentiful lack of con¬ 
descension ? His feeling of human equality amounts almost to 
a fault, for surely he ought sometimes to speak as knowing 
better than they to whom he speaks. He forgets that too 
many will but use his humility for mortar to build withal the 
Shinar-tower of their own superiority.” 

“That may be; yet it remains impossible for him to assume 
anything. He is the same all through, and—I had almost said 
—worthy of Saint Clare.—Well, they must settle it for them¬ 
selves. We can do nothing.” 

“ We can do nothing,” he assented; and, although we re¬ 
peatedly reverted to the subject on the long way home, we 
carried no conclusions to a different result. 

Towards evening of the same Sunday, Roger came to ac¬ 
company us, as I thought, to Marion’s gathering, but, as it 
turned out, only to tell me he couldn’t go. I expressed my 






















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Double^ Doublet Toil and Trouble: 357 

regret, and asked him why. He gave me no answer, and his 
lip trembled. A sudden conviction seized me. I laid my 
hand on his arm, but could only say, “ Dear Roger! ” He 
turned his head aside, and, sitting down on the sofa, laid his 
forehead on his hand. 

“ I’m so sorry ! ” I said. 

“ She has told you then ? ” he murmured. 

“ No one has told me anything.” 

He was silent. I sat down beside him. It was all I could 
do. After a moment he rose, saying,— 

“ There’s no good whining about it—only she might have 
made a man of me. But she’s quite right. It’s a comfort to 
think I’m so unworthy of her. That’s all the consolation left 
me, but there’s more in that than you would think till you try 
it.” 

He attempted to laugh, but made a miserable failure of it, 
then rose and caught up his hat to go. I rose also. 

‘‘ Roger,” I said, “ I can’t go, and leave you miserable. 
We’ll go somewhere else—anywhere you please, only you 
mustn’t leave us.” 

“ I don’t want to go somewhere else. I don’t know the 
place,” he added, with a feeble attempt at his usual gaiety. 

“ Stop at home, then, and tell me all about it. It will do 
you good to talk. You shall have your pipe, and you shall 
tell me just as much as you like, and keep the rest to your¬ 
self.” 

If you want to get hold of a man’s deepest confidence, tell 
him to smoke in your drawing-room. I don’t know how it is, 
but there seems no trouble in which a man can’t smoke. One 
who scorns extraneous comfort of every other sort, will yet, 
in the profoundest sorrow, take kindly to his pipe. This is 
more wonderful than anything I know about our kind. But I 
fear the sewing-machines will drive many women to tobacco. 

I ran to Percivale, gave him a hint of how it was, and de¬ 
manded his pipe and tobacco-pouch directly, telling him he 
must content himself with a cigar. 


^58 The Vicai^s Daughter. 

Thus armed with the calumet, as Paddy might say, I ret 
turned to Roger, who took it without a word of thanks, and 
began to fill it mechanically, but not therefore the less care¬ 
fully. I sat down, laid my hands in my lap, and looked at 
him without a word. When the pipe was filled I rose and got 
him a light, for which also he made me no acknowledgment. 
The revenge of putting it in print is sweet. Having whiffed a 
good many whiffs in silence, he took at length his pipe from 
his mouth, and as he pressed the burning tobacco with a fore¬ 
finger, said,— 

“ I’ve made a fool of myself, Wynnie.’’ 

** Not more than a gentleman had a right to do, I will pledge 
myself,” I returned. 

She has told you then ? ” he said once more, looking rather 
disappointed than annoyed. 

“No one has mentioned your name to me, Roger. I only 
guessed it from what Marion said when I questioned her about 
her sad looks ” 

“ Her sad looks ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“What did she say ? ” he asked eagerly. 

“ She only confessed she had had something to trouble her, 
and said she hoped it would be over soon.” 

“ I daresay ! ” returned Roger dryly, looking gratified, how¬ 
ever, for a moment. 

My reader may wonder that I should compromise Marion 
even so far as to confess that she was troubled; but I could 
not bear that Roger should think she had been telling his story 
to me. Every generous woman feels that she owes the man 
she refuses at least silence; and a man may well reckon upon 
that much favour. Of all failures, why should this be known 
to the world ? 

The relief of finding she had not betrayed him helped him, 
I think, to open his mind : he was under no obligation to 
silence. 

“ You see, Wynnie,’* he said, with pauses, and pufls at his 


Double^ D(mbk^ T<nl ahd Trouble. 359 

pipe, I don’t mean I’m a fool for falling in love with Marion. 
Not to have fallen in love with her would have argued me a 
beast. Being a man, it was impossible for me to help it, after 
what she’s been to me. But I was worse than a fool to open 
my mouth on the subject to an angel like her. Only there 
again, I couldn’t, that is, I hadn’t the strength to help it. 1 
beg, however, you won’t think me such a downright idiot as to 
fancy myself worthy of her. In that case I should have dc' 
served as much scorn as she gave me kindness. If you ask 
me how it was then that I dared to speak to her on the sub¬ 
ject, I can only answer that I yielded to the impulse common 
to all kinds of love to make itself known. If you love God, 
you are not content with his knowing it even, but you must 
tell him as if he didn’t know it.—You may think from this 
cool talk of mine that I am very philosophical about it; but 
there are lulls in every storm, and I am in one of those lulls, 
else I shouldn’t be sitting here with you.” 

“ Dear Roger! ” I said, “ I am very sorry for your disap¬ 
pointment. Somehow I can’t be soriy you should have 
loved—” 

‘‘ Have loved / ” he murmured. 

** Should love Marion, then,” I went on. ** That can do 
you nothing but good, and in itself must raise you above your¬ 
self And how could I blame you that, loving her, you wanted 
her to know it ? But come now, if you can trust me, tell mo 
all about it, and especially what she said to you. I dare not 
give you any hope, for I am not in her confidence in this 
matter— and it is well that I am not, for then I might not 
able to talk to you about it with any freedom. To confess the 
real truth, I do not see much likelihood, knowing her as I do 
that she will recall her decision.” 

“It could hardly be called a decision,” said Roger. "You 
would not have thought, from the way she took it, there was 
anything to decide about. No more there was; and I thought 
I knew it, only I couldn’t be quiet. To think you know a 
thing, and to know it, are two very different matters, however. 


3^ The Vicat^s Daughter. 

But I don’t repent having spoken my mind: if I am humbled, 
I am not humiliated. If she had listened to me, I fear I 
should have been ruined by pride. I should never have judged 
myself justly after it. I wasn’t humble, though I thought I 
was. I’m a poor creature, Ethelwyn.” 

‘‘ Not too poor a creature to be dearly loved, Roger. But 
go on and tell me all about it. As your friend and sister, I 
am anxious to hear the whole.” 

Notwithstanding what I had said, I was not moved by sym¬ 
pathetic curiosity alone, but also by the vague desire of render¬ 
ing some help beyond comfort. What he had now said, 
greatly heightened my opinion of him, and thereby, in my 
thoughts of the two, lessened the distance between him and 
Marion. At all events, by hearing the whole I should learn 
how better to comfort him. 

And he did tell me the whole, which, along with what I 
learned afterwards from Marion, I will set down as nearly as 1 
can, throwing it into the form of direct narration. I will not 
pledge myself for the accuracy of every trifling particular which 
that form may render it necessary to introduce; neither, I am 
sure, having thus explained, will my reader demand it of me. 


Roger a7td Marion. 


$61 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

ROGER AND MARION. 

During an all but sleepless night, Roger had made up his 
mind to go and see Marion—not certainly for the first tittle, 
for he had again and again ventured to call upon her; but 
hitherto he had always had some pretext sufficient to veil his 
deeper reason, and, happily or unhappily, sufficient also to 
prevent her, in her more than ordinary simplicity with regard 
to such matters, from suspecting one under it. 

She was at home, and received him with her usual kindness. 
Feeling that he must not let an awkward silence intervene, 
lest she should become suspicious of his object, and thus the 
chance be lost of interesting, and possibly moving her before 
she saw his drift, he spoke at once. 

“ I want to tell you something. Miss Clare,” he said as lightly 
as he could. 

“Well?” she returned, with the sweet smile which graced 
her every approach to communication. 

“ Did my sister-in-law ever tell you what an idle fellow I 
used to be ? ” 

“ Certainly not I never heard her say a word of you that 
wasn’t kind.” 

“ That T am sure of. But there would have been no unkind¬ 
ness in saying that, for an idle fellow I was, and the idler be¬ 
cause I was conceited enough to believe I could do anything. 
I actually thought at one time I could play the violin. I 
actually made an impertinent attempt in your presence one 
evening—years and years ago. I wonder if you remember it” 

“I do; but I don’t know why you should call it imperti¬ 
nent.” 

“ Anyhow I caught a look on your face that cured me of 


36 a Tlie Vicat^s Daughter. 

that conceit I have never torched the creature since—a 
Cremona too I ” 

“ I am very sorry—indeed I am. I don^t remember-w 

Do you think you could have played a false note ? 

** Nothing more likely.” 

“Then I daresay I made an ugly face. One can’t always 
help it, you know—when something unexpected happens. Do 
forgive me.” 

“ Forgive yoUf you angel! ” cried Roger, but instantly checked 
himself, afraid of reaching his mark before he had gathered 
sufficient momentum to pierce it. “ I thought you would see 
what a good thing it was for me. I wanted to thank you for 
it” 

“ It’s such a pity you didn’t go on, though I Progress is the 
real cure for an over-estimate of ourselves.” 

“ The fact is, I was beginning to see what small praise there 
is in doing many things ill and nothing well. I wish you 
would take my Cremona. I could teach you the A B C of it 
well enough. How you would make it talk! That would be 
something to live for—to you play the violin ! Ladies do 

now-a-days, you know.” 

“ I have no time, Mr. Roger. I should have been delighted 
to be your pupil; but I am sorry to say it is out of the ques¬ 
tion.” 

“ Of course it is. Only I wish—well, never mind, I only 
wanted to tell you something. I was leading a life then that 
wasn’t worth leading; for where’s the good of being just what 
happens—one time full of right feeling and impulse, and the 
next a prey to all wrong judgments and falsehoods ? It was 
you made me see it. I’ve been trying to get put right for a 
long time now. I’m afraid of seeming to talk goody, but you 
will know what I mean. You and your Sunday evenings have 
waked me up to know what I am, and what I ought to be. I 
am a little better, I work hard now. I used to work only by 
fits and starts. Ask Wynnie.” 

“ Dear Mr. Roger, I don’t need to ask Wynnie about any* 


Roger and Marion, 363 

thing you tell me. I can take your word for it just as well as 
hers. I am very glad if I have been of any use to you. It is 
a great honour to me.** 

“ But the worst of it is, I couldn’t be content without letting 
you know, and making myself miserable.** 

“ I don’t understand you, I think. Surely there can be no 
harm in letting me know what makes me very happy! How 
it should make you miserable, I can’t imagine.** 

“ Because I can’t stop there. I*m driven to say what will 
offend you, if it doesn’t make you hate me—no, not that, for 
you don’t know how to hate. But you must think me the 
most conceited and presumptuous fellow you ever knew. I’m 
not that, though; I’m not that; it’s not me ; I can’t help it; 
I can’t help loving you—dreadfully—and it’s such impudence ! 
—To think of you and me in one thought! And yet I can’t 
help it O Miss Clare ! don’t drive me away from you.” 

He fell on his knees as he spoke, and laid his head on her 
lap, sobbing like a child who had offended his mother.—He 
almost cried again as he told me this.—Marion half started to 
her feet in confusion, almost in terror, for she had never seen 
such emotion in a man; but the divine compassion of her 
nature conquered: she sat down again, took his head in her 
hands, and began stroking his hair as if she were indeed a 
mother seeking to soothe and comfort her troubled child. 
She was the first to speak again, for Roger could not command 
himselfi 

“ I’m very sorry, Roger,” she said. “ I must be to blame 
somehow.” 

“To blame I” he cried, lifting up his head; “ You to blame 
for my folly I But it’s not folly,” he added impetuously; “ it 
would be downright stupidity not to love you with all my 
souL” 

“Hush! hush!” said Marion, in whose ears his language 
sonnded irreverent; “—you coulddtXovQ me with all your soul 
if you would. God only can be loved <?ith all the power of 
the human soul” 


364 The Vicar's Daughter. 

“ If I love him at all, Marion, it is you who have taught 
me. Do not drive me from you—lest—lest—I should cease 
to love him, and fall back into my old dreary ways.” 

“ It’s a poor love to offer God—love for the sake of another,” 
she said, very solemnly. 

“ But if it’s all one has got? ” 

‘‘ Then it won’t do, Roger. I wish you loved me for God’s 
sake instead. Then all would be right. That would be a 
grand love for me to have.” 

“ Don’t drive me from you, Marion,” he pleaded. It was 
all he could say. 

“ I will not drive you from me. Why should I ? ” 

“ Then I may come and see you again ? ” 

“Yes—when you please.” 

“ You don't mean I may come as often as I like?” 

“Yes—when I have time to see you.” 

“ Then,” cried Roger, starting to his feet with clasped hands, 
“—perhaps—is it possible ?—you will—you will let me love 
you ? O my God ! ” 

“ Roger,” said Marion, pale as death, and rising also, for 
alas ! the sunshine of her kindness had caused hopes to 
blossom whose buds she had taken only for leaves—“ I thought 
you understood me! You spoke as if you understood per¬ 
fectly that that could never be which I must suppose you to 
mean. Of course it cannot. I am not my own to keep or to 
give away. I belong to this people—my friends. To take 
personal and private duties upon me, would be to abandon 
them ; and how dare I ? You don’t know what it would result 
in, or you would not dream of it. Were I to do such a thing, 
I should hate and despise and condemn myself with utter re¬ 
probation. And then what a prize you would have got, my 
poor Roger! ” 

But even these were such precious words to hear from her 
lips! He fell again on his knees before her as she Stood, 
caught her hands, and hiding his face in them, poured forth 
the following words in a torrent. 


Roger and Marion, 365 

•• Marlon, do not think me so selfish as not to have thought 
about that It should be only the better for them all. I can 
earn quite enough for you and me too, and so you would have 
the more time to give to them. I should never have dreamed 
of asking you to leave them. There are things in which a dog 
may help a man, doing what the man can’t do : there may be 
things in which a man might help an angel.” 

Deeply moved by the unselfishness of his love, Marion could 
not help a pressure of her hands against the face which had 
sought refuge within them. Roger fell to kissing them wildly. 

But Marion was a woman, and women, I think, though I 
may be only judging by myself and my husband, look forward 
and round about more than men do ;—they would need at 
all events;—therefore Marion saw other things. A man-reader 
may say that if she loved him, she would not have thus looked 
about her; and that if she did not love him, there was no 
occasion for her thus to fly in the face of the future. I can 
only answer that it is allowed on all hands women are not 
amenable to logic : look about her Marion did, and saw that, 
as a married woman, she might be compelled to forsake her 
friends more or less, for there might arise other and paramount 
claims on her self-devotion. In a word, if she were to have 
children, she would have no choice in respect of whose welfare 
should constitute the main business of her life; and it even 
became a question whether she would have a right to place 
them in circumstances so unfavourable for growth and educa¬ 
tion. Therefore to marry might be tantamount to forsaking 
her friends. 

But where was the need of any such mental parley ? Of 
course she couldn’t marry Roger. How could she marry a 
man she didn’t look up to ? And look up to him she certainly 
did not—and could not. 

“ No, Roger,” she said, this last thought large in her mind, 
and as she spoke, she withdrew her hands—“ it mustn’t be. 
It is out of the question.—I can’t look up to you,” she added, 
as simply as a child. 


3 « The Vicat^s Daughter, 

** I should think not,” he burst out. ** That would be a fine 
thing! If you looked up to a fellow like me, I think it would 
almost cure me of looking up to you ; and what I want is to 
look up to you every day and all day long. Only I can do that 
whether you let me or not” 

“ But I don’t choose to have a—a—friend to whom I can’t 
look up.” 

“ Then I shall never be even a friend,” he returned sadly. 
“ But I would have tried hard to be less unworthy of you.” 

At this precise moment, Marion caught sight of a pair of 
great round blue eyes, wide open under a shock of red hair, 
about three feet from the floor, staring as if they had not 
winked for the last ten minutes. The child looked so comical, 
that Marion, reading perhaps in her looks the reflex of their 
own position, could not help laughing. Roger started up in 
dismay, but beholding the apparition, laughed also. 

“ Please, grannie,” said the urchin, “ mother’s took bad and 
wants ye.” 

“ Run and tell your mother I shall be with her directly,” 
answered Marion, and the child departed. 

You told me I might come again,” pleaded Roger. 

“ Better not. I didn’^ know what it would mean to you 
when I said it.” 

“ Let it mean what you meant by it—only let me come.” 

“ But I see now it can’t mean that. No. I will write to 
you. At all events, you must go now, for I can’t stop with 
you when Mrs. Foote—” 

“ Don’t make me wretched, Marion. If you can’t love me, 
don’t kill me. Don’t say I’m not to come and see you. I will 
come on Sundays anyhow.” 

The next day came the following letter. 

Dear Mr. Roger, —I am very sorry both for your sake and 
my own that I did not speak more plainly yesterday. I was 
so distressed for you, and my heart was so friendly towards 
you, that T rould hardly ^hink of anything at first but how to 


Roger and Marion. 3^ 

c omfort you : and I fear I allowed you after all to go away with 
the idea that what you wished was not altogether impossible: 
But indeed it is. If even I loved you in the way you love me, 
I should yet make everything yield to the duties I have under¬ 
taken. In listening to you, I should be undermining the whole 
of my past labours, and the very idea of becoming less of a 
friend to my friends is horrible to me. 

But, much as I esteem you, and much pleasure as your 
society gives me, the idea you brought before me yesterday 
was absolutely startling ; and I think I have only to remind 
you, as I have just done, of the peculiarities of my position, to 
convince you that it could never become a familiar one to me. 
All that friendship can do or yield, you may ever claim of me j 
and I thank God if I have been of the smallest service to you; 
but I should be quite unworthy of that honour, were I for any 
reason to admit even the thought of abandoning the work 
which has been growing up around me for so many years, and 
is so peculiarly mine that it could be transferred to no one else. 

Believe me yours most truly, 
Marion Clar& 


368 


TJie Vicar s Daughter, 


CHAPTER XLTV. 

A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ROGER, AND ABOUT MR. BLACKSTONE. 

After telling me the greater part of what I have just written, 
Roger handed me this letter to read, as we sat together that 
same Sunday evening. 

“ It seems final, Roger ? ” I said with an interrogation, as I 
returned it to him. 

“Of course it is,” he replied. “ How could any honest man 
urge his suit after that —after she says that to grant it would 
be to destroy the whole of her previous life, and ruin her self- 
respect ? But I’m not so miserable as you may think me, 
Wynnie,” he went on ; “ for, don’t you see ? though I couldn’t 
quite bring myself to go to-night, I don’t feel cut off from her. 
She*s not likely, if I know her, to listen to anybody else so 
long as the same reasons hold for which she wouldn’t give me 
a chance of persuading her. She can’t help me loving her, 
and I’m sure she’ll let me help her when I’ve the luck to find a 
chance. You may be sure I shall keep a sharp look out. If 
I can be her servant, that will be something—yes, much. 
Though she won’t give herself to me—and quite right too !— 
why should she ?—God bless her !—she can’t prevent me from 
giving myself to her. So long as I may love her, and see her 
as often as I don’t doubt I may, and things continue as they 
are, T shan’t be down-hearted.—I’ll have another pipe, I think.” 
—Here he half-started, and hurriedly pulled out his watch.— 
“ I declare there’s time yet! ” he cried, and sprung to his feet. 
—“ Let’s go and hear what she’s got to say to-night.” 

“ Don’t you think you had better not ? Won’t you put her 
out ? ” I suggested. 

“ If I understand her at all,” he said, “ she will be more put 
out by my absence, for she will fear I am wretched, caring only 
for herself and not for what she taught me. You may come or 


A Little More about Rogery and about Mr, Blackstone, 369 

stay—7'm off.—^You’ve done me so much good, Wynnie! ” he 
added, looking back in the door-way. “ Thank you a thousand 
times. There’s no comforter like a sister ! ” 

And a pipe,” I said, at which he laughed, and was gone. 

When Percivale and I reached Lime Court, having followed 
as quickly as we could, there was Roger sitting in the midst, as 
intent on her words as if she had been an old prophet, and 
Marion speaking with all the composure which naturally 
belonged to her. 

When she shook hands with him after the service, a slight 
flush washed the white of her face with a delicate warmth— 
nothing more. I said to myself, however, as we went home, 
and afterwards to my husband, that his case was not a desperate 
one. 

But what’s to become of Blackstone ? ” said Percivale. 

I will tell my reader how afterwards he seemed to me to 
have fared; but I have no information concerning his sup¬ 
posed connexion with this part of my story. I cannot even be 
sure that he ever was in love with Marion. Troubled he cer¬ 
tainly was, at this time ; and Marion continued so for a while- 
more troubled, I think, than the necessity she felt upon her with 
regard to Roger, will quite account for. If, however, she had 
to make two men miserable in one week, that might well cover 
the case. 

Before the week was over, my husband received a note 
from Mr. Blackstone, informing him that he was just about to 
start for a few weeks on the continent. When he returned I 
was satisfied from his appearance that a notable change had 
passed upon him : a certain indescribable serenity seemed to 
have taken possession of his whole being; every look and tone 
indicated a mind that knew more than tongue could utter—a 
heart that had had glimpses into a region of content. I thought 
of the words—“ He that dwelleth in the secret place of the 
Most High,” and my heart was at rest about him. He had 
fared, I thought, as the child who has had a hurt, but is 
taken up in his mother’s arms and comforted. What hurt 

B b 


370 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

would not such comforting outweigh to the child ? A nd who 
but he that has had the worse hurt man can receive, and the 
best comfort God can give, can tell what either is ? 

I was present the first time he met Marion after his return. 
She was a little embarrassed—he showed a tender dignity—a 
respect as if from above—like what one might fancy the em¬ 
bodiment of the love of a wise angel for such a woman. The 
thought of comparing the two had never before occurred to 
me, but now for the moment I felt as if Mr. Blackstone were a 
step above Marion. Plainly, I had no occasion to be troubled 
about either of them. 

On the supposition that Marion had refused him, I argued 
with myself that it could not have been on the ground that she 
was unable to look up to him. And notwithstanding what she 
had said to Roger, I was satisfied that any one she felt she 
could help to be a nobler creature, must have a greatly better 
chance of rousing all the woman in her, than one whom she 
must regard as needing no aid from her. All her life had 
been spent in serving and sheltering human beings whose con¬ 
dition she regarded with hopeful compassion : could she now 
help adding Roger to her number of such ? and if she once 
looked upon him thus tenderly, was it not at least very possible 
that, in some softer mood, a feeling hitherto unknown to her 
might surprise her consciousness with its presence—floating to 
the surface of her sea from its strange depths, and leaning towards 
him with the outstretched arms of embrace ? 

But I dared not think what might become of Roger should 
his divine resolves fail—should the frequent society of Marion 
prove insufficient for the solace and quiet of his heart. I had 
heard how men will seek to drown sorrow in the ruin of the 
sorrowing power—^will slay themselves that they may cause their 
hurt to cease—and I trembled for my husband^s brother. But 
the days went on, and I saw no sign of failure or change. He 
was steady at his work, and came to see us as constantly as 
before; never missed a chance of meeting Marion; and at 
every treat she gave her friends, whether at the house of which 


The Dea Ex, 


J7» 

I have already spoken, or at Lady Bernard’s country place ill 
the neighbourhood of London, whether she took them on the 
river, or had some one to lecture or read to them, Roger was 
always at hand for service and help. Still I was uneasy—for 
might there not come a collapse—especially if some new event 
were to destroy the hope which he still cherished, and which 
1 feared was his main support? Would his religion then 
prove of a quality and power sufficient to keep him from drifting 
away with the receding tide of his hopes and imaginations ? In 
this anxiety perhaps I regarded too exclusively the faith of 
Roger, and thought too little about the faith of God. How¬ 
ever this may be, I could not rest, but thought and thought 
until at last I made up my mind to go and tell Lady Bernard 
all about it. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE DEA EX. 

‘‘And you think Marion likes him?” asked Lady Bemaid, 
when she had in silence heard my story. 

“ I am sure she likes him. But you know he is so far inferior 
to her—in every way.” 

“ How do you know that ? Questions are involved there 
which no one but God can determine. You must remember 
that both are growing. What matter if any two are unequal 
at a given moment, seeing their relative positions may be re¬ 
versed twenty times in a thousand years. Besides, I doubt 
very much if any one who brought his favours with him 
would have the least chance with Marion. Poverty to turn 
into wealth, is the one irresistible attraction for her; and, 
however duty may compel her to act, my impression is that 
she will not escape loving Roger.” 

B b 9 


372 


The Vicar's Daughter. 

I need not say I was gratified to find Lady Bernardos coiv 
elusion from Marion’s character run parallel with my own. 

“ But what can come of it ? ” I said. 

“Why, marriage, I hope.” 

“ But Marion would as soon think of falling down and 
worshipping Baal and Ashtaroth as of forsaking her grand-* 
children.” 

“Doubtless. But there would be no occasion for that. 
Where two things are both of God, it is not likely they will be 
found mutually obstructive.” 

“Roger does declare himself quite ready to go and live 
amongst her friends, and do his best to help her.” 

“ That is all as it should be, so far as he—as both of them 
are concerned ; but there are contingencies ; and the question 
naturally arises—How would that do in regard of their 
children ? ” 

“ If I could imagine Marion consenting,” I said, “ I know 
what she would answer to that question. She would say— 
why should her children be better off than the children about 
them ? She would say that the children must share the life 
and work of their parents.” 

“And I think she would be right—though the obvious 
rejoinder would be : ‘You may waive your own social privi¬ 
leges, and sacrifice yourselves to the good of others, but have 
you a right to sacrifice your children, and heap disadvantages on 
their future? ’ ” 

“ Now give us the answer on the other side, seeing you 
think Marion would be right after all.” 

“ Marion’s answer would, I think, be—that their children 
would be God’s children, and he couldn’t desire better 
for them than to be born in lowly conditions, and trained 
from the first to give themselves to the service of their fellows 
—seeing that in so far their history would resemble that of 
his own son, our Saviour. In sacrificing their earthly future, 
as men would call it, their parents would but be furthering 
their eternal good.” 


The Dea Ex, 


373 

** That would be enough in regard of such objef tions. But 
there would be a previous one on Marion’s own part How 
would her new position affect her ministrations ? ” 

“ There can be no doubt, I think,” Lady Bernard replied, 
that what her friends would lose thereby—I mean what 
amount of her personal ministration would be turned aside 
from them by the necessities of her new position—would be 
Lr more than made up to them by the presence among them 
of a whole well-ordered and growing family, instead of a single 
woman only. But all this yet leaves something for her more 
personal friends to consider—as regards their duty in the 
matter. It naturally sets them on the track of finding out 
what could be done to secure for the children of such parents 
the possession of early advantages as little lower than those 
their parents had as may be; for the breed of good people 
ought, as much as possible, to be kept up. I will turn the 
thing over in my mind, and let you know what comes of it” 

The result of Lady Bernard’s cogitations is, in so far, to 
be seen in the rapid rise of a block of houses at no great dis¬ 
tance from London, on the North-Western railway, planned 
under the instructions of Marion Clare. The design of them 
is to provide accommodation for all Marion’s friends, with 
room to add largely to their number. Lady Bernard has also 
secured ground sufficient for great extension of the present 
building, should it prove desirable. Each family is to have 
the same amount of accommodation it has now, only far 
better, at the same rent it pays now, with the privilege of 
taking an additional room or rooms at a much lower rate. 
Marion has undertaken to collect the rents, and believes that 
she will thus in time gain an additional hold of the people 
for their good, although the plan may at first expose her to 
misunderstanding. From thorough calculation she is satisfied 
she can pay Lady Bernard five per cent for her money, lay 
out all that is necessary for keeping the property in thorough 
repair, and accumulate a fund besides to be spent on build¬ 
ing more houses should her expectations of these be answered 


374 Vicar*s Daughter^ 

The removal of so many will also make a little room for the 
accommodation of the multitudes constantly driven from their 
homes by the wickedness of those who, either for the sake of 
railways or fine streets, pull down crowded houses, and drive 
into other courts and alleys their poor inhabitants to double 
the wretchedness already there from overcrowding. 

In the centre of the .building is a house for herself, where 
she will have her own private advantage in the inclusion ol 
large space primarily for the entertainment of her friends. 1 
believe Lady Bernard intends to give her a hint that a mar¬ 
ried couple would, in her opinion, be far more useful in such 
a position than a single woman. But although I rejoice in the 
prospect of greater happiness for two dear friends, I must in 
honesty say that I doubt this. 

If the scheme should answer, what a strange reversion it 
will be to something like a right reading of the feudal system ’ 

Of course it will be objected that, should it succeed ever so 
well, it will all go to pieces at Marion’s death. To this the 
answer lies in the hope that her influence may extend laterally 
—as well as downwards—moving others to be what she has 
been; and in the conviction that such work as hers can 
never be lost, for the world can never be the same as if she 
had not lived ; while in any case there will be more room for 
her brothers and sisters who are now being crowded out of the 
world by the stronger and richer. It would be sufficient 
answer, however—that the work is worth doing for its own 
sake and its immediate result. Surely it will receive a welU 
done from the judge of us all; and while his idea of right re¬ 
mains above hers, high as the heavens are above the earth, his 
approbation will be all that either Lady Bernard or Marion will 
seek. 

If but a small proportion oi those who love the right and 
have means to spare, would, like Lady Bernard, use their 
wealth to make up to the poor for the wrongs they receive at 
the hands of the rich—let me say, to defend the Saviour in 
their persons from the tyranny of Mammon, how many of the 


The Dea Ex. 375 

pool might they not lead with them into the joy of their 
Lord ! 

Should the plan succeed, I say once more, I intend to urge 
on Marion the duty of writing a history of its rise and progress 
from the first of her own attempts. Then there would at 
least remain a book for all future reformers and philanthropists 
to study, and her influence might renew itself in others ages 
after she was gone. 

I have no more to say about myself or my people. We 
live in hope of the glory of God. 

Here I was going to write- the end, but was arrested by 
the following conversation between two of my children— 
Ernest, eight, and Freddy, five years of age. 

Ernest, I’d do it for mamma, of course. 

Freddy. Wouldn’t you do it for Harry ? 

Ernest. No ; Harry’s nobody. 

Freddy. Yes, he is somebody. 

Ernest. You’re nobody; I’m nobody; we are all nobody^ 
compared to mamma. 

Freddy (stolidly). Yes; I am somebody. 

Ernest. You’re nothing; I’m nothing; we are all nothing in 
mamma’s presence. 

Freddy. But, Ernest, every thing is something; so I must 
be something. 

Ernest. Yes, Freddy, but you’re nothing; so you’re nothing. 
You’re nothing to mamma. 

Freddy. But Tm mamma's. 


THE KKD. 
















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